


Heroes

by MissjuliaMiriam



Series: Willow [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (sort of), Character Development, Comfort Sex, Dorian Plays With Fire (Figuratively), Dorian is Learning to be a Good Ally, Elf Yoga, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenris Disapproves Of Many Of Nirem's Life Choices, Fenris Lowkey Hates Dorian and HIGHKEY HATES HIS DAD, Ferelden is Fucking Cold and Muddy as Shit, Grief/Mourning, Here Lies the Abyss, Hero Worship, Hope and Miracles, M/M, Madness, Metaphors (sorry), Non-Sexual Submission, Red Lyrium, Reminiscing, Reunions, Self-Sacrifice, Sparring, Temporary Character Death, The Last Resort of Good Men, Time Travel, Trans Male Character, discussion of slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heroism is not a quantifiable attribute.</p><p>Or, the final major installation in the Willow 'Verse, featuring the Inquisition starring Nirem Lavellan. This story will make essentially zero sense without reading the rest of the series. It's still mostly about Fenris, but it's a little bit about Nirem, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are at last! The final piece of the puzzle.
> 
> Fair warning: I have very little buffer for this story - only another chapter written after this one. There may be a few weeks where I resort to posting some of the smut I've stored up rather than an actual chapter, but I'll do my best to keep it rolling. Keep in mind that I'm going back to school in a bit less than two weeks, and I'll be a lot busier then than I have been all summer. I have no plans to abandon this story, however, and it would probably kill me just as much as it would kill you to have it left unfinished.
> 
> Enjoy this first chapter. The chapters of this story will be slightly longer than the BaB chapters were, I suspect; as for the total length of the story, I've got no clue. Also, no outline, which... maybe I should fix. 
> 
> One last quick note - I will, as with Time Will Tell and Bow and Bend, be adding additional and character tags as I go along. Characters with a very minor role aren't getting tagged, or I'd be tagging approximately two-thirds of Thedas.

Fenris hates the Storm Coast. It is wet, cold, and full of people who want to kill him; none of those are things of which he is fond. The Chargers have found themselves there a few times over the three-and-change years he's been with them, and they never manage to disappoint his expectation of utter misery. Still, this time at least they are there with the promise of a long-term, well-paying job, better than anything they've had since before Fenris joined on, and for the security that comes with that job Fenris is willing to put aside his hatred of the place - to a degree, anyway. They've been fighting off the occasional group of Tevinter zealots or brigands who stumble across their campsite for the last several days, all of it in the endless drizzle that characterizes the Storm Coast. Fenris is certain he’ll never be dry again, and it’ll be a mercy to smell something other than salt. Krem returned only a few days ago with the news that the Herald of Andraste had agreed at least to meet with them, so they're stuck for the moment waiting for their potential employer to arrive. 

The day he does, he comes on the heels of a gang of Venatori, and Fenris doesn't see much of him until the fight is over. Still, he doesn't bother to hide his stare when he trudges over to the Iron Bull on Krem's heels. The Herald is an elf. Specifically, a Dalish elf, with a sword strapped to his hip and bold black vallaslin marking his face. It seems utterly absurd - Krem had said he was Dalish, yes, but Fenris hadn't quite realized that he was _Dalish_. He speaks softly, and his eyes are delicately slanted and as green as the rent in the sky, and he looks at Fenris with unbridled curiosity - and a hint of recognition. Fenris doesn't linger to find out the source of the latter. Surely, he'll have a chance to investigate this miraculous Andrastian relic, but in the dripping rain and with wet sand between his toes is not the time to do it. The Bull has agreed to the Herald's terms, whatever they are, and they will have bed and board soon enough.

The journey to Haven is slow. The Chargers aren't a large company, and they know how to set a quick pace, but the weather is cold and the Herald (Lavellan, is what the Bull tells them his clan name is) had told them not to rush. So they take their sweet time, toting casks of beer and taking long evenings to relax and relish in having work. The Iron Bull goes with Lavellan off to run what Fenris assumes is a trial errand, to Redcliffe if the Bull is to be believed, and one of the Herald's companions joins them for the journey back - a woman named Cassandra, who wears the armour of a Seeker of Truth and wears it well, and looks at Fenris quite strangely. She mostly keeps to herself, and none of the Chargers mind her presence, especially since it gets them rooms in nicer inns for less gold. She's a warrior and a taciturn one, and Fenris in particular appreciates that.  
It’s cold, winter oncoming and snow already fallen this high in the Frostbacks. Fenris hasn’t spent much time in Ferelden - only in the northern reaches, on the rare job with the Chargers. It’s Hawke’s homeland, he knows, and occasionally a woman with a familiar accent will cause his head to turn, but it’s never her. It’s odd; he’d almost thought he’d forgotten her, but this is proof that she lingers still, in some part of his consciousness. He hasn’t seen her in four years, and he has been with Krem for near a year of that time, if his count is accurate, and yet. A difficult woman to be rid of, Hawke.

Krem finds Fenris brooding by the fire one night, and sits down, waiting for Fenris’s nod before pressing close. “How are you?” he asks.

Fenris shrugs, and leans into Krem’s side. “Fine,” he says. “You needn’t worry about me.”

Krem gives him a look. “I always worry about you. You’re a mess.”

“Thank you so very much,” Fenris snorts. “What kind and loving words you heap upon me, _amatus_."

“You know it comes from the heart,” Krem replies, haughty in his tone. Then he laughs, and says, “Really, though. You’re okay?”

Fenris gives the question the thought it deserves. “Yes,” he decides. “I’m well enough. I’ll feel better when we have a warm place to sleep once more.”

Krem, who hates the cold just as much as Fenris, nods, and they curl together before the fire for a while longer before retiring to their tent.

Eventually, they reach Haven. The Chargers take their time making themselves presentable before they make the last few hours’ trek into the village; they know when to make a good impression, and now is one of those times. Fenris pulls his hair back into the low tail that has become his custom, leaving a few strands loose to fall across his forehead. He dislikes baring the triad of marks on his face, though Krem has told him several times that they’re not as unsightly as he thinks. Still, he wants to look his best, and that means only showing enough of his markings to intimidate; the ones on his arms and throat are usually enough for that purpose. Today, only his arms are bared, and only below the elbow, as Fenris has found he cannot bear the cold without a scarf around his neck. Krem looks him over before they leave their tent, smooths a twisted clasp on the fur-lined tunic he wears over his mail, and pronounces him very handsome, then seals it with a kiss. They linger for a moment, their foreheads pressed together, and then they go out to meet the day.

Haven is a small town and snow-covered like the rest of the Frostbacks, but lively, people coming and going in Inquisition armour and in peasant’s clothing and in Chantry wear. The stable and the smith outside the wall seem well-kept-up and lively, and the guards on the wall are vigilant, peering at them until they spot Cassandra, and then waving them cheerfully inside. In mail and clean overclothes, the Chargers make a picture, and people stop to stare as they enter the town. Fenris resists the urge to duck his face into the loose, lightly tattered scarf he wears, and instead presses his toes into the cold stone, bolstering himself. Such attention has never been comfortable for him, but for the sake of the Iron Bull and all the Chargers, he will bear it. Krem is at his side, and then lends strength enough.

Cassandra leaves them as they enter the second level of the town, splitting off to shout at a trainee who’s holding his shield upside down. And then, from the left, an incredulous voice says, “Fenris?”

Fenris turns and for a moment doesn’t see anyone, and then he directs his gaze slightly downward and meets eyes set in a very familiar face. “Varric,” he says, startled. “I did not know you had joined the Inquisition.”

“Fenris!” Varric says again, instead of responding in any sort of intelligible way. He trots over and grasps Fenris’s arm, peering up at him. “You - huh. Wow, you look good.”

Fenris scowls. “Yes, thank you, Varric. Why are you here?”

“Because the Lady Seeker dragged me in by the ear in hopes that I could tell her where Hawke is, so that she could use her as a figurehead, mostly. Also because, you know, world's falling apart, and I do love a good story.”

Fenris blinks and recoils a bit. “Hawke is here?”

“No, no,” Varric says, and some of the tension drains from Fenris. He’s more settled to the possibility of seeing Hawke again, but he doesn’t want to be ambushed by her. “Even if I did know where she is, I wouldn’t be telling anyone, but I don’t actually know. Well, I know where to send letters, because she tells me where their next stop is going to be, but she’s wandering all over Ferelden and the Free Marches, helping the mages.”

“She still travels with Anders?” Fenris asks, unsure if he’s troubled by that. He has no right to be, really, but he hasn’t forgotten their encounter with him those few years ago. He’d seemed a different man, but in many ways all the same, and even at his most sane the man had been questionable company.

“Yeah,” Varric says. He looks over Fenris’s shoulder, where Krem is hovering, listening in with quiet curiosity. “If they do end up hooking up with the Inquisiton, it’ll be a real get-together. It’s great to see you, Fenris.”

“You as well, Varric,” Fenris says. It’s true; he’d missed Varric. Isabela, too, though he’d seen her not so long ago. The dwarf was good company, sympathetic and entertaining, and it’s heartening to know that he has found himself with the Inquisition. Varric is self-interested, but when he chooses to dedicate himself to a cause, it’s because it’s a good one. It gives Fenris hope for the Inquisition.

 

The Herald of Andraste is one of the most interesting people the Iron Bull's ever met, mostly because he _seems_ totally boring. He's Dalish, yes, and in the way a lot of the Dalish are he's uneducated about the world - he fumbles when dealing with merchants, he laughs loudly at tired jokes and brainless puns, he is often confused and forges ahead blindly rather than following any particular moral heading or intellectual reckoning. He's naive and artless and foolish; he's got no depth beyond a thin layer of good intentions and good humour. Nothing seems to bother him enough to cause anything more than mild defensiveness or befuddlement. It's enough to be charming, the Bull supposes, but no more than that. And yet, he has an incredible and indescribable charisma. He's a fearsome warrior, a whirlwind in battle and utterly fearless; he doesn't know much, but he's intuitive and solid in his reasoning; he's genuine in his curiosity and his joy, he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he seems one of those rare people who seems shallow only because he has nothing to hide. The Iron Bull would have to be a fool to dismiss Nirem Lavellan.

He's got an interesting choice of companions, too. Elves, the both of them: a rogue named Sera, with whom the Bull finds he gets along with just fine, and an apostate who calls himself Solas, though the way he says it makes the Iron Bull think that it's not his real name. Lavellan seems to like the latter better than the former, though he has no magic himself; then again, he's Dalish, and their people value mages. The Bull watches closely for the first few days, but as it becomes clear that none of them are worthy of any particular mistrust, he allows himself to relax a bit. Every person in the party has their secrets, including the seemingly transparent Herald, and he's happy to let them keep them. For now. Still, there's one thing that has been burning in the back of his mind since that first encounter on the Storm Coast, and once they're well on their way and settled into a rhythm of travel and fighting, the Bull can no longer restrain himself.

"Hey, Boss," he says, as they're walking through _yet more_ of the Hinterlands. (The Iron Bull hates Ferelden. It's icy, it's muddy, and it goes on _for-fucking-ever_.) "Do you know Fenris from somewhere?"

Lavellan goes tense. "No," he says, stiffly. Really stiffly. The kid's a shitty fucking liar. "Why would I?"

"Well," the Bull says, and exchanges an amused glance with Solas. Both of them have noticed how hapless Lavellan can be, and though they've yet to come across a situation requiring any sort of guile, when they inevitably do he knows that they're not going to be able to leave it to their fearless leader. "You were giving him a real odd look on the Coast. And I could have _sworn_ that I saw a copy of _Tale of the Champion_ in your pack the other day - it's not exactly practical to carry around, don't you think?"

Lavellan goes so red that the Iron Bull's concerned he's going to pass out. He doesn't, but he trips. "I'm used to carrying all my belongings with me," he says, overly loud. "I wasn't comfortable leaving anything in Haven, for those shems to paw over."

"You're avoiding the question," the Bull says, and Sera snickers when Lavellan trips again.

"I know," he says. He sounds miserable, and the Bull almost tells him it's okay and gives up. But he _really_ wants to know. This promises to be hilarious. "My clan got our hands on a copy of the _Tale_ a few years ago, not long after it was published. I - um - I'm a bit of a fan. I asked the Keeper if I could bring the copy with me when I left. It's got pressed leaves and flower in the pages - tokens of luck from the clan. It's valuable to me."

"And you're not just a fan of the book," the Bull guesses. "You're a fan of Fenris."

"Maybe," Lavellan mumbles. "He's very admirable."

"Oh, certainly," the Bull says, in his most reasonable tone. "Handsome, romantic, a _very_ capable warrior. Definitely a good role model for a young elf such as yourself. And an escaped slave on top of it! I'm sure the mystery was inescapable."

"Don't make fun of me," Lavellan says. "I heard it enough from my lethallen back home. _Yes_ , I was a bit taken with Fenris, and _no_ , before you ask, I was not entirely prepared to meet him in person. Can you blame me? He's a character from my favourite tale, and a paragon of everything I would like to be as a man and as an elf." As Lavellan works himself up, his usually subtle hand gestures become rather emphatic. It's adorable. "He's a warrior, as you said, and though I'd chosen the sword before I knew about him it's a point of pride to share a weapon with a role model! And - and he escaped slavery! He fought fiercely the live free from the shemlen who oppress our people, and that's something _all_ Dalish should look up to! Don't tease me for thinking him admirable!"

The Iron Bull laughs, and he pulls Lavellan to a stop with a broad hand on his shoulder. "Alright, alright," he says. "I'll admit I was teasing a bit, but I didn't mean to mock you. Nothing you said about Fenris was wrong, but he's no hero, and he'll probably be a bit uncomfortable with your admiration. So, while I _definitely_ encourage you to go talk to him once we meet up with the Chargers back in Haven, I'd tone it down a little. You'll just scare him off."

Lavellan gapes. "Right," he says, a bit stunned, and then he says, "Will you tell me about him?"

He sounds so hopeful that the Bull can only laugh again, and gesture that they should go onward. "Sure thing, Boss," he says. "I'm sure I've got a few stories."

 

The Iron Bull appears with remarkable suddenness in the middle of the small tent camp that the Chargers are occupying in Haven, with the dust of the road still on his body and a deep frown on his face. All of the Chargers come to attention from where they were seated around their small fire, having lunch, but he ignores most of them.

"Fenris," the Bull says. "Come with me. Krem, too."

The two of them nod and follow the Bull just outside of the perimeter of tents. The others could hear if they listened, but they'll respect the privacy of the moment. Fenris finds himself unaccountably nervous; he doesn't know what's going on. Something serious, certainly, if the Iron Bull is this grim.

"What's wrong, Chief?" Krem asks, once the Bull stops and turns to face them.

"The Herald has accepted the alliance of a Tevinter Altus," the Bull says. "His name is Dorian Pavus. I don't trust him; I told the Herald that he shouldn't either, but he didn't listen. We left him in Redcliffe, but I doubt we've seen the last of him."

Fenris closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. If Tevinter has become involved in any way, the Inquisition is that much more dangerous for him. Krem has never been pursued after deserting the army, but Fenris is still very much wanted as an escaped slave and the a known associate of the one who murdered a powerful magister; his understanding is that most of the Imperium blames him for Danarius's demise, regardless of the fact that Fenris was far from Kirkwall when Danarius was killed. And this man, Pavus. "I know the name," Fenris says. "Not this one in particular, but his father, Halward Pavus. He's a magister."

"Reputation?" the Bull asks.

"Not terrible, but not excellent," Fenris says, and shrugs. "Known distaste for blood magic. Very concerned with his reputation among the upper class. He was a distant associate of Danarius; they had dealings, but they didn't approve of one another personally. Danarius was very publicly harsh with his slaves and a blood mage, neither of which Pavus approved. I met the man one or twice, but he and Danarius were cool, and only worked together because of a shared business interest, if my memory is correct. I believe I may have met his son once, as well, but it was more than ten years ago, and he was quite young then."

"He looked about twenty-five," the Bull says. "Maybe a bit younger. You were with Danarius... between ten and fifteen years ago?"

Fenris pauses a moment to count in his head. Four years with the Chargers, six with Hawke. A year on his own, a year with the Fog Warriors, between five and ten years with Danarius. "Something like that," Fenris says. "It was early in my days with Danarius; I may have been younger than twenty myself. I don't know."

"You're old," Krem says lightly, and nudges Fenris's shoulder. "If you were twenty fifteen years ago, you're closer to forty than to thirty now."

Fenris raises an eyebrow. "Thirty-six or thirty-seven, I think, if my own estimate is correct," he says. "Not that old."

"Old enough that Pavus would have been at most twelve when you met him," the Bull says.

"That sounds about right," Fenris says. "He was a bright child, if I recall him correctly. Talented, even at such a young age." He frowns. "An eye will need to be kept on him."

"I'm sure you'll do fine at that," the Bull says, and claps a hand on Fenris's shoulder.

"Yes, ser," Fenris says, and bows his head in acknowledgement of the subtly given order. He has a duty to his company to monitor this potential threat, and of all of them he knows the most of the behaviour of magisters; he's the most equipped to do this. "Is there anything else?"

The Bull grins, then, the heaviness of the mood lifting. "You should talk to the Herald," he says. "He'd be thrilled. Apparently he's a fan of Varric's book, and of one character in particular."

Fenris groans, and Krem starts laughing. "A _fan_?" Fenris asks, incredulous. They've met people familiar with Varric's work in the past, even a few who recognized Fenris from the descriptions, but none who were - well. Fans. Not in the way that the Bull seems to implying. "You must be joking."

"I'm not," the Bull says. "I may or may not have shared a few choice anecdotes. He had little stars in his eyes, I'm pretty sure, and I didn't even exaggerate all that much."

Fenris groans again, longer, and slaps a hand over his eyes. Bull starts laughing too, and beside them, Krem is leaning on one of the tentpoles, his arm around his waist as he cracks up. "I'm glad you think this is funny," Fenris grumbles, and only barely resists throwing up his hands as he turns and walks back into their camp, leaving the both of them behind, lost in hilarity.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAHHHH I'M SORRY I'M POSTING SO LATE I KEPT REMEMBERING AND THEN FORGETTING AGAIN
> 
> ENJOY THE CHAPTER I CAN'T WRITE FIGHT SCENES FOR SHIT I'M SORRY

"Come  _on_ , Fenris, he's just a kid! He's not going to bite you!"

Fenris growls and phases his arm out of Varric's grip for the third time. The dwarf is stubborn as a mule, though, and grabs him again. "I have things to do," he says.

"Oh?" asks Varric. "Like what? Sitting around, making puppy eyes at your boyfriend? Sparring? You're the best warrior I've ever met; you can spare ten minutes to meet the blighted Herald of Andraste. He's harmless, I swear!"

"Varric, I don't-"

"Varric?"

Fenris turns his glare from Varric onto whoever has come over. And, because his life runs along these paths, the person standing before him is none other than the Herald of Andraste himself, something Lavellan. Fenris has yet to hear anyone address the Dalish boy by his first name, if he even has one.

“Er,” says the Herald, his green eyes gone wide. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll come back later.”

“No, no,” Varric says, sounding overly pleased with himself. Fenris scowls at him. “We were just coming to find you; have you met Fenris yet?”

“We were not,” Fenris mutters, at the same time as the Herald shakes his head, struck mute.

“Well!” says Varric. He elbows Fenris in the side. “Herald of Andraste, Fenris; Fenris, Herald of Andraste, aka Nirem Lavellan.”

Fenris sighs and gives up. “A pleasure,” he says. “ _Now if you don't mind_ .”

“Oh, of course!” says Lavellan.

“No, no,” says Varric. “Come on, Broody, stay and have a conversation. The Iron Bull had a few great stories about you, and I for one would really like to know if the one about the noble's daughter and the poison ivy is true.”

Fenris is  _extremely_ tempted to just walk away, but he knows for a fact that the Bull exaggerates that story absurdly every time he tells it, and he really can't bear that kind of damage to his reputation. “Only some of it,” he says. “I didn't fall nearly as far as he surely said I did, for one.”

“But you did fall,” Varric crows, and starts laughing.

Lavellan is still wide-eyed. “What happened?” he asks, sounding a little breathless. Fenris is abruptly reminded that the so-called Herald couldn't possibly be older than eighteen; he's a child.

“Sit down,” Fenris says. “I'm not telling this entire story standing up.” Once they're all seated, he says, “If you write this down, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

Varric just grins. “Sure thing, Broody. Now come on, give it up.”

“Don't interrupt,” Fenris says, and then he sets into the story – it was honestly a very ridiculous episode; he doesn't entirely blame the Bull for telling the story to everyone. Just, it's bad enough  _without_ embellishment. As it was, he'd fallen almost two stories, and then itched for weeks. Neither Lavellan nor Varric interrupt him in the telling of the story; Lavellan looks enraptured, and Varric starts cackling the second Fenris stops talking, slapping his knee as he rocks back on the log he's seated on.

“That's pure gold, Broody!” Varric says. “Come on, tell another.”

“I don't have another,” Fenris says, sullen. “Moreover, I refuse to embarrass myself for your pleasure. More than I already have, anyway. I'm sure the Iron Bull has plenty of tales, if you care to ask him.”

“Oh, but you told it so well!” Lavellan says, and then blushes bright red when Fenris looks at him. “That is – well, that is – I mean. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?”

Fenris is intensely reminded of Merrill. Wide green eyes, only a few shades brighter than hers, with that same lilting Dalish accent and dark tattoos. All of the things that made her endearing, with none of the blood magic to keep him from feeling really very sorry for the boy. “No,” he sighs. “You're not. I understand you have... an interest. In me.”

Lavellan goes even more red. “Well,” he says, and visibly gives up. “Yes. I'm sorry. I feel like quite the idiot now that you're here in front of me, and I'm acting like an utter goose.”

“You're doing fine,” Fenris says. “I cannot say I understand your admiration, but I don't... resent it. Or whatever it is you're worried about. Just calm down.”

Lavellan bites his lip. Fenris can see Varric in his peripheral vision, watching them with a familiar calculating look in his eye that Fenris knows means that this encounter will end up in print some day. There's not much he can do to stop it now, unfortunately, so he ignores Varric. At the very least he can keep his dignity, and that means handling this boy with care – he doesn't want to accidentally do something to damage the spirits of the child who is supposed to save them all.

“It's just, you're very,” Lavellan pauses for a moment and gestures vaguely. “Admirable. You're admirable. Everyone in my clan read the book, or had it read to them if they couldn't read – you and Merrill were the favourites by far. You're  _elves_ , out here in the real world, saving things! Being granted the respect that the rest of us are eternally denied. And it's not only that you  _have_ respect, it's that you were able to  _take_ it, in a way that none of us ever could. You – the life you live, that's the dream for so many of us. Powerful, respected, independent.”

“I was a slave,” Fenris says bluntly. “For the vast majority of my life, I had no agency whatsoever; I was property. In some ways, I will never shake off the chains that the magisters put on me. Some things will linger forever. I have lived a hard life, and I have flaws. Don't mistake me for some idol, and don't make me into a figurehead for elven liberation.”

“I don't!” Lavellan says. “I swear. It's just that I look up to you, Fenris. You  _have_ had a hard life, and I know you're not perfect. But you are very much what I aspire to be as a man, as a warrior, and as an elf. You don't have to understand why I admire you, but I'm glad you don't think I'm a fool for doing so.”

“I cannot understand,” Fenris sighs, and leans back on his hands, considering Lavellan's open expression. In some ways, the elf before him is very much what Fenris wishes he could be, or perhaps what he wishes he had been. “I have no experience of the sort of admiration you are professing to me. I had no aspirations when I was young but to serve well, and to avoid punishment. Still, if there is some strength I can lend you, it is yours. You bear a heavy burden.”

“Nirem,” Lavellan says. “Please, call me Nirem. And thank you, Fenris. Would you – would you consider a spar, some time? I would be honoured.”

Fenris quirks half a smile and nods once. “That much I can certainly do. Tomorrow morning, unless you intend to set out again immediately.”

Nirem shakes his head. “No. We'll not be leaving again for some time.”

“That is well. At the training grounds, then,” Fenris says, and rises from his seat. He inclines his head once more, this time in an imitation of a bow. “Good day, Nirem. Varric.”

“G-good day, Fenris!” Nirem stutters, Varric's laughing goodbye following after, and Fenris leaves them behind. Krem will want to hear about this; he'll laugh until he's sick. Again.

 

The next morning, Fenris rises early as usual and leaves Krem sleeping in their shared bedroll to go stretch with Dalish and Skinner. Most of the Chargers are still abed, only Grim sitting by the fire, keeping silent watch over their small camp. Haven is just beginning to rouse around them, a few chimneys smoking, the stirrings of small town life beginning as the sun rises. Fenris nods to Grim, and receives a nod in return, then heads out of their ring to tents to the patch of clear earth where he and the other elves have taken to stretching in the mornings.

To Fenris's surprise, the women are not alone when he arrives. Another elf, an older man with a smooth, bald head and worn clothing is sitting with them, beginning the first stretches in their usual sequence. He and Dalish are speaking quietly, but they break off as Fenris approaches, and all three of the other elves look up.

"Good morning, Fenris," Dalish says, and smiles at him. "Sleep well, did you?"

"Well enough," Fenris says, and drops down beside them, spreading his legs into an easy straddle and reaching along one leg toward his foot. He turns his head so that he can look at the newcomer. "Who are you?"

"My name is Solas," the other man says. "One of the Herald's companions, I suppose. And you are Fenris."

Fenris grunts, and leans further into his stretch. "Many people seem to know of me here."

"Your name is well-known, yes," Solas says. "I heard several of Master Tethras's stories about you, and I thought I might seek you out."

"My time is much in demand, as well," Fenris says, and shifts his position to lean along his other leg. "I owe Lavellan a spar."

"He must be delighted."

There's a sort of sly amusement in Solas's face when Fenris looks, though his tone had been completely bland. Dalish starts giggling.

"Shut up," Fenris tells her, and that only makes Skinner snort, rather than making Dalish stop laughing. He sighs. "He has a case of hero worship; I intend to discourage it."

"Take care with him," Solas murmurs. "He has a large heart, and a soft one. I would rather not see it bleed."

Fenris shakes his head. "That is why I wish to discourage him. I am not a man possessed of many admirable qualities."

"You have plenty of admirable qualities," Dalish says. "Not the least your... self-determination, I suppose. It's something that the Herald should aspire to, or else he'll end up swept under by the tide of the Inquisition."

"He's not without spirit," Fenris says. "He shines brightly. I worry more that he will chase the wrong ideal and burn himself out before he is able to set foot on a path that is better for him. As I said: I'm not possessed of many admirable qualities; I certainly wouldn't make a good leader for an organization like the Inquisition. He needs a more substantial idol."

"You seem quite substantial to me," Solas says. His stare is heavy on Fenris's skin, as weighted as any physical touch. "You have survived much, and you have found a way to thrive. That is admirable to me."

"My survival is my own, but survival does not an idol make." Fenris sits up and crosses his legs, regarding Solas. "I have suffered in my life, well beyond the imagining of many, and that has left scars. I am not a hero; I am barely a soldier. Lavellan could do better in his choice of role models."

"I do not agree," Solas says, "but I doubt I will be able to convince you otherwise."

Fenris scowls, and shakes his head once more. Then he returns to stretching, and aggressively ignores Solas's stare. Eventually, the other man strikes up a quiet conversation with Dalish about something magic-related - a mage, Fenris things,  _wonderful_ \- but his attention never quite leaves Fenris. Fenris cannot quite understand his interest, perhaps beyond concern for the person to whom the Herald has latched on, but Solas is unworried about Fenris's suitability as a role model. It must be something else, but what it is that is making him so intriguing Fenris cannot fathom. He'd considered himself, if not mundane, then at least less than interesting to others; the members of the Inquisition are determined to dispel that belief.

The sun rises and the morning wears on; Fenris finishes his dawn session with the other elves and returns to his tent to rouse Krem, who is sleepy and soft and affectionate. Fenris finds he cannot bear anything more than a gentle kiss before he has to place a quelling hand on his lover's chest, or else risk crawling out of his own skin.

"What happened?" Krem asks, and Fenris can only shrug uncomfortably. The lyrium is a burning itch beneath his skin, and even the touch of Krem's hand on his arm makes it worse. Krem knows him well and sees his minute flinch, and subsequently he withdraws.

"The lyrium?"

Fenris nods. "Not only that," he says. "But I cannot... I am not ready to discuss it."

"Try the Chief?" Krem asks.

Fenris shrugs again. "Perhaps. Give me time, love."

"Of course."

Fenris gives a wan smile, and then he goes about the final business of getting ready for the day. Light leather armour over comfortable clothing, and his greatsword, just in case, and then he slips out of the tent ahead of Krem. The other Chargers have risen by now too, and greet them cheerfully as each readies themself for the day. The Iron Bull is sitting by their campfire, fastening his knee brace, and he nods at Fenris.

"Morning!" he calls cheerfully. "Off to your date with the Herald?"

Fenris rolls his eyes. "If that is what you wish to call it," he says.

"Would you rather that I said you were off to beat the stuffing out of him?" the Bull laughs. "Because I'm pretty sure that's what's going to happen. He's formidable, but he hasn't got your experience."

"Fair enough," Fenris says. "He's at least twenty years my junior."

The Bull chuckles and waves Fenris on. Fenris goes gladly, leaving Krem to orchestrate the Chargers' normal morning training session. This morning, he's off to the Inquisition's primary training grounds - which the Chargers  _do_ use, but generally not for the conditioning drills Krem runs them through each morning. Nirem, however, is sure to be waiting for Fenris by now. The sun is high, and yet another startlingly familiar face is shouting at recruits in the training yard. Fenris had not forgotten the blond Knight-Captain who had served under Meredith; he'd respected Cullen, even liked him in a distant way during his days in Kirkwall. It had been a surprise to find him with the Inquisition, but his mantle as Commander suits him well, and he nods a warm greeting to Fenris as they pass each other halfway across the yard. Further distant, sitting on a boulder and oiling a handsome broadsword, is Nirem, and he looks up as Fenris approaches, and then leaps to his feet.

"Good morning, Fenris!" he calls.

Fenris waves him back down. "Finish your work," he says. "I'm in no hurry."

Nirem, flushed a little, nods. "Of course. You're welcome to join me." He gestures as a stump near the boulder on which he himself is resettling, and Fenris takes the seat and draws his own weapon from his back. He doesn't have enough time to tend his own blade, but he prefers to do such maintenance in the evening in any case, and he is content to observe Nirem. He tends his weapon with close focus and a deft hand; for all his youth, he's familiar with his sword, and almost surely no amateur at wielding it. It's a good quality blade and the correct length for Nirem's arm, if Fenris's eye alone is any good judge, and a proper choice of weapon, too, tells of Nirem's skill. A sword-and-shield warrior more than a two-handed one, unlike Fenris himself, but they are similar in build and bulk, and Fenris thinks that their bout will be interesting.

Nirem finishes with his sword quickly and slides it soundlessly back into its sheathe, and then waves cheerfully at the rack of blunted practice weapons that 's nearby. "Shall we?" he asks, and springs up, a bounding motion not dissimilar to a deer. Or a halla, Fenris thinks, and smirks a little.

"Certainly," he says, and rises as well, leaving his blade propped against the boulder next to Nirem's.

They walk together over to the rack, Nirem bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, Fenris watching him in his peripheral vision. The boy's energy is entertaining, almost  _cute_ , and Fenris has to remind himself not to underestimate Nirem. If the Iron Bull is calling him formidable, it's because he  _is_ , and for no reason other than that.

Nirem grabs a broadsword similar to his own weapon from the rack, and Fenris grabs a hand-and-a-half sword, and gives it a few deft swings around his body one-handed. He notices that Nirem has paused in checking the balance of his own weapon to observe Fenris, and narrows his eyes. He gives another swing, and then whirls, matching his hands together on the hilt and bringing the sword down fast toward Nirem's head - not with his full strength, but enough to hurt if the blow connects.

The blow doesn't connect. Nirem's instincts are good, despite his distraction, and his own sword comes up. He deflects, steel ringing, and then he laughs. "Sorry," he says. "Only - you're so natural with a sword in hand. I could never use a longsword like that, and yet you can wield it with only one hand."

"I fight with a greatsword," Fenris reminds him. "My true weapon of choice is near as long as I am tall. Of course a longsword gives me no trouble, and this one is even a little short." He tests the balance, and then grunts. "It will do. Shall we?"

Nirem nods. "Do you mind if I grab a shield? I suspect I'll be needing it."

"As you will," Fenris says, and stalks off to claim an open patch of dirt. There are a few recruits running drills not far away, but they break off to watch him as he runs through a few rapid forms with the longsword. It's been a while since he practiced with this particular type of blade, and practice weapons never quite fit properly in his hand anyway. Fenris suspects that even the most perfectly forged practice sword in Thedas would not fit properly in his hand; he would always rather hold a weapon with an edge, and somewhere in his mind something does not sit right when he has a blunted sword in hand. A moment later, Nirem joins him, and runs through a few forms himself before settling into a stance. Fenris faces him, sets his feet, and then nods. "Ready?" he asks.

Nirem grins, a hint of wildness in the points of his canines and in the flick of his ears against his head. "Whenever you are," he replies.

Fenris doesn't hesitate.  _The best defence is a good offence_ , something the Iron Bull had told him once. And against a warrior with a shield, he knows he will be waiting all morning if he does not attack first. He's fast, dashing forward to push Nirem's defence. Nirem isn't slow, but Fenris can tell within the first few testing blows that he would not stand beneath the fullness of Fenris's strength. Nirem seems to come to the same conclusion, and their dance finds a rhythm. Fenris comes on, Nirem parries or blocks a few blows, and then he dances back or slips to the side. His guard is tight, and he's deft with his sword, but the Iron Bull was right: Nirem is inexperienced.

Fenris scores the first blow, striking Nirem's shield hard enough to buckle his defence for a moment and cause him to stumble; Fenris's next thrust catches Nirem's shoulder hard, right under the line of his armour. Nirem grunts, but to his credit comes right back, slamming Fenris away with his shield and catching his breath, settling back into his stance immediately. He's still grinning like a hellion, and he twirls his sword once, waiting for Fenris to reengage.

The match goes on like that. Fenris takes only a few glancing blows - his agility is enough defence when his speed does not hold him in good stead. Nirem takes hard hits when he takes any; usually his mistakes are the result of failing to remember that Fenris is considerably stronger and faster than he is, or else when Fenris pulls a maneuver that he's never seen before, and he cannot muster the correct defence in time. None of his flaws are fundamental ones; Fenris finds himself enjoying the spar, for all that he wins without much trouble.

When the bout comes to an end, it's with Fenris closing tight against Nirem, locking the hilts of their swords, and then tripping the boy straight onto his backside with a trick he'd pulled from Isabela's book, years ago. "Not fair!" Nirem laughs, the tip of Fenris's sword at his throat.

"Always expect rogue's tricks from a warrior," Fenris says, and pulls back his sword. Then he offers a hand, which Nirem takes with delight, leaving his shield in the dust. "It's not often that that expectation is required, but at least you will never be surprised."

"Good advice," Nirem says. "Thank you, Fenris."

"I enjoyed myself," Fenris says. "No thanks are necessary."

"Then we could do this again?" Nirem asks eagerly, flushing a bit. "Oh - is that presumptuous?"

"No," Fenris says. "No, I would spar with you again." He pauses, clears his throat, and then says, "Myself and a few of the other elves - two of the Chargers, and one of your companions, if he continues to appear - rise at dawn and stretch together. None of us would mind if you chose to join us."

Nirem bites his lip. "Are you sure? I wouldn't be... intruding?"

"Not at all," Fenris says, and finds he means it. He's not sure how he feels about the admiration he can still see clear on Nirem's face, but he does like the boy.

"Thank you," Nirem says, and it sounds very heartfelt indeed. "Creators go with you, Fenris." And then he bows, and trots off to put away his sword and shield, leaving Fenris with an amused expression on his face.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. So, a couple of notes for this week. First of all, I think I'm going to change my update day to Thursday. I'm back to school now, and I'm in class all day on Wednesdays. Secondly, I've mentioned previously, but I still have very little buffer for this story, and I'm going to be increasingly busy over the next few months as school really picks up. I may end up having to go to a slightly more sporadic update schedule, or to every two weeks, or something. I'm hoping not to have to do that, but this story can't be my priority.
> 
> That being said, I've written the end. Not the middle, but the end. So, one way or the other, come hell or high water, Heroes is getting finished, and with it the Willow 'Verse. I've one more smut installation to post, if I manage to finish it, but other than that this story is the end, and I don't think I'll be writing more in this 'verse once I finish it. Be aware that this story is not going to go all the way to the end of DA:I, and certainly is not going to include Trespasser. 
> 
> That's all for now. Please enjoy this chapter! It's more unedited than usual, but I feel like I've been hit by a bus. I didn't want to put off posting, but it's unpolished, so just be warned. I may go through tomorrow or sometime on the weekend and make minor adjustments.

Nirem begins joining Fenris, Dalish, Skinner, and Solas at their morning stretching sessions. He's a cheerful presence and chats warmly with Dalish and Solas. He knows some forms they don't, Dalish stretches that Dalish herself has forgotten or never knew, and he learns the alienage favourites from Skinner, and a few swordsman's forms from Fenris. Fenris doesn't talk to him much, but he listens to the conversations that Nirem has with the others; by exposure he picks up a great deal of knowledge about the ways of the Dalish and about the ancient Elvhen, about whom Solas is incredibly knowledgeable.

One morning, Nirem brings up the vallaslin. Solas's face immediately pinches, just slightly; no one but Fenris seems to notice, but Fenris's attention to the other man sharpens.

“Are you familiar with the custom?” Nirem says to Fenris.

Fenris nods. “Yes. Merrill taught Hawke a bit about the Dalish, and that was one of her lessons.”

Nirem smiles. “Mine mark my dedication to June. He's the god of craftsmen; most of my clan considered it an odd choice, but-” he shrugs, a little self-consciously. “I like it. He was a self-made man, literally, or so the legend goes.”

“Mine are to Dirthamen,” Dalish says, sitting up from her stretch. She reaches up with one hand to touch the sharp lines on her face. “You know, Fenris, your makings almost looks like June's vallaslin.” She gestures between Fenris's throat and Nirem's face. “They're similar, sort of.”

“I noticed that too!” Nirem says. “Do you – well, I know you don't know much about your markings.”

“No,” Fenris says, thoughtfully. “But comparing himself to the god of craftsmen is the sort of thing Danarius would have done. It would be fitting, in a way.”

Solas's pinched look intensifies, enough that the others notice.

“Something wrong, Solas?” Nirem asks. “You look upset.”

“The vallaslin are-” He stops. “It doesn't matter.” And then Solas rises easily and strides away, catching up his staff as he goes. His hand is white-knuckled around it, Fenris notices.

“I wonder what that was about?” Nirem murmurs, and Fenris looks at him. He looks concerned, watching after the older man. They're close, Fenris knows.

“I'm sure he'll tell you when he's ready,” Dalish soothes, but Fenris and Skinner share a look. They both know the kind of man Solas is – he'll not be telling anyone anything if he can help it.

They finish their stretches in silence, and Nirem wanders off toward the Chantry. They're preparing to make an assault on Redcliffe; the Iron Bull has been informed that he'll be going along, and he's asked Fenris to accompany them. Whether Nirem is aware that Fenris will be going along or not Fenris is unsure, but he understands why the Bull wants him along. A Tevinter magister is involved, and though Krem knows well the currents and behaviours of the Soporati, he's less familiar with the upper classes. Fenris is a much more well-equipped agent in this case. They're all well aware that this is a trap, but none of them know yet what kind of trap it is, exactly. Nirem seems determined to walk right into it regardless, and all they can do is keep him from getting caught.

According to the Iron Bull, Leliana is already aware that Fenris is coming along; he'll be going in with her people, infiltrating the castle and keeping his own sharp eye out for any preventable Tevinter treachery, from Alexius or from Pavus. They're set to leave in two days, and Fenris is honestly looking forward to it. This will be the first action he's seen since they joined the Inquisition, and he's getting close to crawling out of his skin. Even just the travel to Redcliffe will settle him some, he's sure. For the moment, at least, he can occupy himself with preparations, and with spending time with Krem before he leaves. The rest of the Chargers are being sent off on another mission, along with a few of Cullen's men, to gather coin and whatever supplies they can find for the Inquisition. It will be several weeks before they see each other again, and Fenris wants to make the most of the time they have remaining.

 

The journey to Redcliffe is long. And cold. Fenris is not sure whether it would have been better or worse to travel alone; Leliana's agents are not soldiers, and some are used to gentler conditions than the ones on the road they travel. Others are overly curious about Fenris, who occupies the unfortunate position of outsider, and though his stony stare is enough to discourage their questions, it is not enough to discourage the whispering. If he'd had his greatsword, maybe working with the weapon would have driven them off, or at least been a distraction for Fenris, but on a stealth mission he'd settled for a shortsword and a dagger instead. He keeps to himself, keeps watch more than is probably his share, and doesn't speak much. It's a relief to arrive in Redcliffe, overrun by Tevinters and humming with hostile magic as it is. Fenris can feel the energy in the air, like static flickering across his skin. What exactly Magister Alexius has been working in Redcliffe Castle Fenris cannot guess, but the magic is powerful, and Fenris is increasingly short-tempered and edgy the longer they're in the village.

It takes a day to infiltrate the castle, and then they're stuck waiting, watching from hidden positions and keeping an eye out for the Herald's party. The agent that Fenris is paired with is a mercifully quiet, competent young woman, who has no trouble communicating in hand-signals and learned after the first time he almost stabbed her not to touch Fenris without some warning. He's too jumpy, he knows, but he can't help it. The last time he was stuck lingering in back passages, listening to men speak Tevene, feeling magic on his skin, waiting for someone to summon him to action was when he was a slave, and he  _ hates  _ it.

Still Nirem does eventually arrive, and Fenris and his partner, along with all the other agents, are able to go to work. They massacre a large number of Venatori soldiers and even a few mages silently and swiftly, and are in position to take out the last guards in the trhone room even as Alexius grandstands. Fenris barely resists the urge to spit, listening to the man rant about “raising the Imperium from its own ashes”. He's amazed the Iron Bull manages to hold his composure – he looks disgusted.

Fenris steps out from behind a pillar just as Nirem says, “Your men are dead, Alexius.” He nearly laughs – he recognizes his own line, from years ago, re-purposed. Alexius's face twists, fury deepening the lines of age around his mouth.

“You are a mistake,” he spits. “You should never have existed!” He raises a hand, and hovering about it is an amulet, magic glowing poisonous green around it. The air charges, and Fenris's markings ignite involuntarily.

“No!” shouts Pavus, and casts. Fenris is a moment behind, throwing himself between Nirem and the spark of the magister's magic. For a moment, it seems that Alexius has been stymied, but Fenris can feel the roil of energy on his skin, and it's no surprise when the world erupts into a vortex of black and green a moment later. He hears Nirem cry out behind him, and then everything is gone.

Fenris opens his eyes to red. He's in a pool of water, and the off-key jangling of red lyrium song is deafeningly loud in his mind. His markings  _ burn _ , and he jolts up out of the water, his hand going to the hilt of his shortsword. Next to him, Nirem is sputtering, spitting filthy water. And on his other side, Pavus is sweeping wet hair back from his face, already out of the water and standing, his staff in hand.

“ _ Mage _ ,” Fenris snarls, and then he's on Pavus, forcing him back against the mossy wall of the cellar they've materialized in. “What have you done!?”

“Wh- nothing!” Pavus cries. His eyes are wild in the white light of Fenris's markings, and his staff splashes down into the puddle at their feet as his hands fly up to grasp at Fenris's wrists. Fenris has one hand on his throat, the other partially phased into his shoulder, ready to crush his heart the moment he tries anything. “It was Alexius!”

“ _ Bullshit, _ ” Fenris says, and leans in close, his teeth bared. “Where are we?”

“Fenris!” Nirem shouts, from behind him. “Fenris, let him go! He's an ally!”

“He's  _ altus _ ,” Fenris replies, never taking his eyes off of Pavus. “He's no one's ally but his own.”

"I resemble that remark," Pavus chokes out. "Please let me go - I swear, I had nothing to do with this."

"It's 'resent'," Nirem says from behind Fenris. "Just for the record. Fenris, please."

Fenris loosens his grip, but doesn't let go. "Where are we?"

"The future, I suspect," Pavus says. "That amulet looked remarkably similar to something Alexius and I were working on in Minrathous, but I had no idea he'd completed the project. It's time magic. Complicated, of course, certainly beyond the understanding of either of you - no offence meant! Only that it would be complicated even for your average mage, which neither of you are. Now,  _ please _ let me go,  _ lupus _ ."

Fenris recoils for a half-second, and then he comes back hard, slamming Pavus's head against the wall. Pavus moans, low and pained, and his expression goes tight with pain. " _ Do not call me that _ ," Fenris hisses.

"Fenris!" Nirem says again, and then he grabs Fenris from behind. He's not strong enough to pull Fenris off of Pavus on his own, but Fenris allows Nirem to move him, leaving Pavus to slump down into the water.

"Do not trust him," Fenris says, turning to meet Nirem's eyes. "He is a snake, and will bite you the moment it is advantageous for him to do so."

"He deserves the benefit of the doubt," Nirem replies, as firm as Fenris has ever heard him, and then pushes past Fenris to go to Pavus's side, saying, "Dorian, are you okay?"

Fenris watches, his eyes narrows with suspicion, as Nirem helps Pavus up out of the water. Pavus groans again, one hand going to his head as he blinks dazedly. Fenris wants  _ desperately _ to reach down and haul Nirem away, to drag him with him and run as far from this corrupted place and this  _ mage _ as possible, but he knows it will do no good - he knows stubborn compassion, he has seen it before, and Maker help him, it will only make Nirem angry to try to force him away from what he considers  _ right _ . 

Pavus shakes away his disorientation, and then stands, Nirem hovering at his elbow. He recovers his staff from the water, and then fixes Fenris with a glare. "That was rude," he says in a haughty tone. "And unfounded."

"I know your kind well," Fenris replies. "Do not think to try anything - I will catch those tricks that even the most suspicious of the Herald's other companions would miss."

"Who  _ are _ you?" Pavus asks. "I hear Tevinter in your voice, but-"

"You might know me as the Wolf," Fenris says. "I was a slave, once. No longer. My name is Fenris."

Pavus blinks, and then recoils a bit. " _ Danarius's _ Wolf? And I called you - oh,  _ kaffas _ . Nirem, you have dangerous companions."

Nirem clears his throat. "I... suppose I do, yes. Should I take that to mean that Fenris has a reputation in Tevinter."

"That would be putting it lightly," Pavus laughs. "He's  _ infamous _ . I can't decide if I'm honoured to still be alive, or terrified to be in the same country as this man, never mind in the same room."

Fenris doesn't restrain his bloodthirsty smile. He has the blood of more than one magister on his hands, and no small number of slavers; he's glad the Imperium knows it. "I will not hesitate to justify you fear -  _ again _ \- if you do not become more helpful. I'll only ask once more,  _ altus _ :  _ where are we _ ?"

Pavus's bravado drains away. “Alexius was working on time magic,” he blurts. “I cannot imagine we've gone far in terms of  _ space _ – we're probably still in Redcliffe. We must have jumped in time, though.”

“Going by the abundance of red lyrium, we're likely in the future,” Nirem muses. “Wonderful.”

Nirem is right, of course – the stuff is growing through the walls. If there had been such copious amounts of it in their present day, Fenris would have been able to feel it. He opens his mouth to reply, but before he manages to speak, two guards come stumbling through the door, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Fenris's own blade is drawn instantly, Nirem only a second behind, and between their swordwork and Dorian's magic, the men are quickly taken care of. Nirem searches their bodies and comes away with a key.

“Let's get out of this dungeon, shall we?” he says, brandishing it. “We're not like to find more information locked up down here.”

Fenris bows his head briefly, and takes up a position behind Pavus, watching him closely as they move through the dungeon. The red lyrium all around sings its sick song, resonating with Fenris's own markings; he moves carefully, avoiding any contact with the substance. Pavus and Nirem make quiet small talk, filling the tense air with light-hearted chatter, but Fenris stays silent. He knows Nirem has decided to trust this man, for whatever reason, but he cannot trust him himself, and from the nervous glances Pavus occasionally tosses over his shoulder, he's well aware of the weight of Fenris's gaze on his back. That suits Fenris just fine.

They find Fiona first, her body twisted and warped by the growth of the red lyrium that she is infected with. Her mind is clearly as sick as her body, but enough remains of the woman she was to tell them that they are indeed in the future: a year, only. Nirem looks horrified, and their pace picks up as they search for other survivors of the dungeons. Along the way, they stumble across plenty of Venatori, and for all Fenris's reservations about the man, Pavus makes himself useful and doesn't stab them in the back. Not yet, anyway; Fenris keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword at all times.

Fenris is not sure what he's expecting to find in the depths of the infected citadel, but the Iron Bull is not it. Yet they find him there, slumped in a cell, his eyes hazy and glowing red with corruption. When he sees Fenris, he surges to his feet, reaching out in a hopeless grasp.

“The Iron Bull,” Fenris says, and steps forward to take his hand even as Nirem breaks the lock off the cell door. “You live.” He's not sure if he's relieved or horrified; what life is left in the Bull is less than life, truly. A half-life. A cursed life. But life all the same.

“ _ Fenris _ ,” the Bull replies, gripping Fenris's hand so hard his bones creak. “You have to go. This place – it's not safe for you. You think I look like shit, imagine how  _ you'll _ be after long enough, exposed to it all.” He gestures at himself, the red aura around his body. He moves like every movement is agony, like every break drives splinters into his lungs and every beat of his heart drags poison through his veins. It likely does, Fenris thinks, and offers his commander his shoulder as he lumbers out of his cell.

“We hope not to be here long,” Fenris replies. “What of the others?”

The Iron Bull's expression turns to wretched blackness. “Gone. All of them. We thought you were dead, all of you – the Elder One's taken over, and the world's gone to shit.” He looks at Nirem, then. “If you can stop this, Herald,  _ do it _ . You've got my blade, from now until the end. I don't have much left in me, but it'll be enough to see the end of that fucker Alexius, at least.”

Pavus flinches, but he doesn't speak in his old master's defence. Instead, Nirem replies. “Of course, Iron Bull. I'll take your help gladly. Is anyone – is anyone else left?”

The Iron Bull shakes his head. “Varric's here somewhere, unless he's already dead. They caught him right away, after you vanished; I managed to get out, though I was recaptured later. And Leliana. She's a tough one. Everyone else fell, in battle, or to the lyrium.”

Nirem's expression is tight, but he nods all the same, and gestures their small party onward. The Bull doesn't have a weapon, but even with his bare hands he's a fierce fighter, and they are eventually able to recover an axe for him from the corpse of a Venatori guard. With him at their side, they're able to cover ground in the dungeons more quickly, and his presence gives Fenris a reason to relax a little.

“Tell me,” Fenris says quietly, when they're halfway down yet another steep stair, searching for their other companions. “What of – what truly happened to the others?”

The Bull exhales a harsh breath. “Most of the Chargers went in battle,” he says. “Early on. It was... rough. Krem survived, and Dalish. But Dalish lost her spirit, and she didn't last long after that. Krem... held on. I guess. There wasn't much left of him, either, not after losing you.”

Fenris swallows hard and focuses on the stone steps beneath his feet. “Did he–?”

“He's long gone,” the Bull says, almost gently. “He fell in the same battle where they captured me. It was... bad. The Commander...”

“Cullen?”

The Bull nods, and looks ahead of them. Pavus and Nirem have gone quiet, listening, Fenris thinks. He supposes he doesn't begrudge them their curiosity; he can't spare the energy to do so, when his whole heart is consumed with sorrow.

“The enemy got their hands on Cullen long enough to infect him with red lyrium. Turns out Templars are particularly vulnerable to it. He... lost his mind. They waited until there wasn't anything left of the man we knew and sent him against us.” The Bull chuckles darkly. “One thing to say for the man: he's a good warrior. Krem took him on. Won, even. But not without taking some serious injuries, and without Stitches or Dalish...”

“Did you see him die?” Fenris asks, his voice flat. “Was he in pain?”

“He was,” the Bull says. “But he fought bravely, and he was at peace at the end. I was with him when he went. He was glad to be going to your side, he said. I wish that'd been the truth.”

Fenris forces himself to keep walking, his eyes closed against his grief. He almost walks into Nirem's back, and when he opens his eyes again, the other elf is looking at him.

“We'll fix this,” Nirem promises fiercely. “If I have to die to do it, Fenris, I'll make this better.”

“None of this means anything if you die,” Fenris says. “Do not promise to sacrifice your own life. Instead, promise to sacrifice mine, if that is what is necessary. Promise to do what it takes to make it  _ right.  _ Better is not good enough.”

Nirem nods. “We'll make it back. I swear it.”

“I will hold you to your oath.”

Pavus clears his throat. “Not that this isn't touching...” he begins, and then snaps his mouth shut when Fenris fixes him with a glare. “Right,” he mutters. “My apologies.”

Fenris only brushes past him, knocking their shoulders together hard enough to make Pavus stumble on the stairs as he goes. Pavus sputters, and Fenris hears Nirem sigh.

“On we go, then,” Nirem says, and they carry on.

They quickly strike lucky again: they find Varric in another cell, as infected as the Iron Bull and not in much better spirits, but he cheers to see Nirem alive, and cheers further when he clasps arms with Fenris.

“Glad to see you made it through, Broody,” he says. “Sorry about... everything. Really just everything.”

“We plan to see this made right,” Fenris says. “This world will not be allowed to exist.”

“Somehow, I believe you,” Varric says, a wry twist to his lips. “Something about the combination of that look on your face and our Herald's powers of improbability.”

Fenris doesn't quite smile, but he finds that Varric's brand of humour is close to what he'd been needing. The world seems less grim with people he trusts by his side. Varric starts up a semi-cheerful patter with Nirem, and the Iron Bull helps Fenris keep an eye on Pavus, and that is enough to make all the sorrows of this broken world seem a little less heavy. Finding Leliana, even emaciated and grim as she is, only adds to their small party's momentum, until they are blazing through the demons and Venatori set in their path.

Finally, they stand before the door to Alexius's throne room, preparing to take on the magister. Fenris sinks to the floor near the wall, taking a moment to try to re-centre himself. His head is ringing with the red lyrium song, ever louder the longer they are here, and his markings burn, sending a creeping ache into every part of his body. He wants to scratch at the lyrium until he can tear it from his skin, but he does not dare, not while the risk of corruption is so high. He survived it once, but there is no guarantee he would do so again, and in any case it was a trial he has no wish to repeat.

After a minute, Varric comes over to sit next to Fenris. He's quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “I'd bet good money that the Iron Bull told you what happened to Krem.”

Fenris nods, and Varric continues. “I doubt he said sorry, though. So: I'm sorry, Fenris. I wish things were different.”

“It will be set right,” Fenris says.

“Not if you die,” Varric says, and turns to look at Fenris. Fenris avoids his gaze. “You know that, right? That if you die, it doesn't matter? I've got a bad feeling about this, Fenris, and if you decide to go down fighting in this time, with us... You don't just get reset, like we do. You're from that time, not from this one; there's no other you back there, waiting for the Herald to fix it. There's just the you that's here now, and if you die here-”

“I know,” Fenris snaps. He clears his throat and ducks his head, and speaks into his knees. “I know, Varric. But my life is not equal to all of Thedas, and if I can make a difference here, I will.”

“You're a good man,” Varric says on a sigh. “A damn good man. You always were, but you're a different kind of good now than you were then.”

“I know,” Fenris says again. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Just take care of yourself, Broody.” Varric gestures at himself. “There's not much left of me, but you're still alive. You deserve to stay that way.”

Fenris wants to say,  _ So do you _ , but he knows it will make no difference. Varric and the Iron Bull as both dead men walking, and they have spent the last year in hell. The ony way to save them now is to return to the present day and undo all that was done to tear the world apart. 

“Are you ready?” Nirem asks, and Fenris looks up to find him standing before them.

“As we'll ever be,” Varric says, and hauls himself up, his joints cracking audibly. He groans. “I'm old.”

Fenris snorts and rises to his feet after Varric. “Only a year older than when I last saw you.”

“A lot can happen in a year,” Varric reminds him, and that, Fenris supposes, is the Maker-damned truth.  _ Too much _ can happen in a year.

“Let's go home,” Nirem says, and then he unsheathes his sword and pushes open the door, all his companions rallied around him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long. And kind of sad. And smutty. So much for that nice friendly T rating. 
> 
> I've put up a tentative chapter number. Do I know if that's actually going to be the right number of chapters? No. There might be less than that; there might be one or two more, depending on how much gets done in each chapter.
> 
> For now, enjoy this one!

The most pure relief Fenris has ever felt in his life is the relief he feels as he steps back through the portal and into the present day. He's only dizzily aware of what's going on around him as Alexius is captured and the King of Ferelden arrives. The magic used on him has made the lyrium ache, and he's sick and addled from the hours of red lyrium exposure, but he manages to drag himself after their party out of Redcliffe Castle and back to the Inquisition camp, where the Iron Bull sits him down by a fire and forces him to meet his eye.

“Report,” the Bull says, and Fenris shakes some of the cotton from between his ears.

“The portal threw us a year forward in time,” he says, trying to marshal the events into some sort of logical order. “Everything had gone mad – Redcliffe was covered in red lyrium. Someone called the Elder One had taken over with a demon army; Empress Celene was dead, and Orlais and Ferelden were overrun.”

The Iron Bull hums. “Any details?”

Fenris shakes his head. “You'll have to ask Nirem – he was paying more attention than I was, admittedly. I was... preoccupied.”

The Iron Bull looks at him sharply. “With Pavus?”

“No,” Fenris says. “Well, yes and no. I watched him closely, but at least for the moment he seems to have no interest in backstabbing us. I wouldn't trust him personally, but Nirem seems determined to let him in, and I doubt we'll be able to discourage him. I'll continue to keep an eye on him.”

“Good. What else?”

“You were there,” Fenris says, and then goes quiet for a moment, wrangling his thoughts. “They were growing red lyrium out of your body – yours and Varric's. You were... not well. But you were yourself, if not in good spirits.”

“Any of the rest of the Chargers?”

“All dead,” Fenris says. He can't say any more for a moment. Then he reaches up and rubs the heel of his palm roughly against one of his eyes. “You... told me how Krem had died. And the rest. Not much intel, though we need to keep the Commander out of enemy hands – Templars, ex- or otherwise, are weak to the effects of red lyrium, and he was driven mad and turned into a weapon against us.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” the Iron Bull says grimly, and sits back. “How are you?”

Fenris shrugs. “Fine. We're back in the present. All of it is undone.”

“That doesn't mean it had no effect on you. We'll be back to Haven soon; you'll see your loverboy again.”

“I know,” Fenris says. “Nirem is a naive fool.”

“Sure thing,” the Bull sighs. “Should've conscripted the mages. But he's Dalish – he's used to apostates running around free, and I didn't really expect him to collar them. We'll see.”

“He has some harsh lessons to learn, before the end.”

“You don't have to be the one to teach him,” the Bull says. He reaches out to place a hand on Fenris's shoulder, gripping him firmly. “My tent tonight. You need to be close with someone.”

“Krem-” Fenris begins, but the Bull cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“Not like that. Just warmth. Don't say you don't need it; I can tell. Your hands are shaking.”

Fenris looks down, and sure enough, his fingers are trembling, just the slightest bit. He resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Yes, ser,” he says instead, and flexes his hands.

“Come get dinner,” the Bull says, and pulls Fenris up with him, leading him with a broad hand partially on his shoulder but mostly across the back of his neck toward the circle of warmth where Nirem sits with Varric and Pavus, waiting for stew.

The evening passes quickly, Fenris sitting close to the Iron Bull's side and not speaking to anyone, unless directly addressed. Nirem and Varric both shoot him the occasional concerned look, but he doesn't meet their eyes. He knows that he shouldn't be so bothered by what he heard and saw in that false future, but he is; he's surprised Nirem isn't more disturbed. Then again, Nirem's concerns are more abstract and less personal. He had not been the one to hear that his lover and all his closest friends – his  _ family _ – had died, very possibly terrified and in agony. Fenris can't help but imagine Krem's face, blood-spattered and pale; he can't help but remember the time that he himself had almost been responsible for his lover's death. He can feel the blood on his hands, thick enough that he wishes he could wash, though he knows there's nothing to be done about the feeling. He can only imagine how much worse it would have been if he hadn't been one of those tossed through into the future. The red lyrium corruption would have killed him slowly and very painfully, or maybe he would have been driven mad and turned against his loved ones, like Cullen.

Fenris picks at his dinner, and ultimately is forced by the Iron Bull's steely eye upon him to finish it. He knows his commander wouldn't allow Fenris to neglect his own health, and abstractly he's grateful for that. He's also too tired to feel particularly rebellious about it. When finally he finishes and the Iron Bull nods his approval and collects his bowl, Fenris's posture has slumped, and he's leaning slightly into the Iron Bull's side. From across the fire, he can see Varric, and he offers a hazy smile, before rising and following the Bull back to the tent that they will share tonight, and likely for the rest of their journey back to Haven; Fenris knows the Bull's moods, and he knows that he'll be insistent on coddling Fenris. Right now, he can't bring himself to object, though he suspects he'll be feeling differently about it in a few days, when he is more recovered.

Fenris and the Bull fall into bed together, the Bull wrapping Fenris in his arms and then in blankets. Fenris wide up sleeping on his front, his face mashed against the Iron Bull's chest and his arms curled between their two bodies. He has warm dreams, and when he wakes the emptiness in him is soothed, though he knows it will not be gone completely until he has Krem beside him once more.

“Only a few more days,” the Bull says to Fenris, as they rise in the morning. Fenris has no smile to give in response, but nods, and stands with his head pressed to the Iron Bull's shoulder for a long moment before they have to face the day. The Bull wraps his hand around Fenris's head, his large palm covering one of Fenris's ears and his fingers pressing at the base of his skull.

Fenris sighs into his skin, then says, “I cannot...”

The Bull understands, though Fenris can't find words to express the rest of what he's feeling. “You don't have to,” he says. “You listen to what I say, and I'll take care of you until we get home.”

They both know  _ home _ means the Chargers more than it has ever meant any place; Fenris nods. “Thank you,” he says, and the Bull presses a kiss to Fenris's forehead.

True to the Bull's word, he's watchful over the next few days. Fenris gets his feet under himself slowly, and when he finds himself tumbling back into dark thoughts, the Bull finds a task and sets him onto it. Often, that task is keeping an eye on Pavus while the Bull takes a side jaunt with Nirem and Varric; they go on a number of short diversions to run some errand or to collect herbs, and Fenris is left in camp with the altus. For the most part, they don't speak, though they exchange mutually wary glances, and Pavus doesn't make any attempt to escape Fenris's eye.

A few days before they reach Haven, Pavus turns to Fenris during one of these periods where they are left alone together, and says, “What would you do if I make a sly insinuation about your relationship with the Qunari?”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Ignore you,” he says.

“You sound so sure,” Pavus says. “Frankly, I'm surprised.”

Fenris doesn't respond; Pavus takes this as permission to keep talking. “You seem the sensitive type, when it comes to your relationships. I suppose when your lover is that large, you're less concerned.”

“The Iron Bull is not my lover,” Fenris says. “He's my employer and my...”

“... Lover?”

Fenris narrows his eyes. “No. The relationship is none of your business; suffice to say that he is  _ not my lover _ .”

“Paramour? Your piece on the side? I heard you talking about that other man – Krem something? Would that make the Qunari your mistress?” Pavus snorts. Then he shoots Fenris a sly glance, and says, “Or your  _ master _ ?”

Fenris is on his feet in a moment. “I have no master,” he says. His fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking. “I am not a slave.”

Pavus puts his hands up in front of him. “It was a joke,” he says. “I apologize; I know you're no longer a slave. If I'd had any idea you were so sensitive about it--”

“You would have made the joke anyway,” Fenris says. “You are the kind who would needle until you got a reaction; you are lucky I am more controlled than I once was, or else you would be dead even for implying such a thing.”

“You  _ are  _ sensitive about it.”

“You sound surprised. But then, you know nothing of slavery.”

“I saw slaves every day when I was back home,” Pavus says. “My family owns a number of them. Their lives are not so terrible.”

“This is not a conversation you want to have with me,” Fenris warns. In all honesty, it's not a conversation  _ he _ wants to have, either. Not now, not when memory is already threatening to choke him. If the past rises up any further, he will drown. “You are more than ignorant; you are arrogant in your ignorance, and you will only succeed in infuriating me.”

“Fair enough,” Pavus says, and nods. His eyes are speculative, though. “Perhaps another day, when I have a nice Lavellan-shaped buffer to prevent you from killing me.”

“Nirem could not stop me if I wanted you dead,” Fenris says darkly, and then he sits back down, and he doesn't speak another word for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Haven appears on the horizon, smoke rising above the buildings, promising warmth and solace for their weary group. Fenris is more than happy to dismount his horse and leave him to the horsemaster's tender cares, and then make his way with a swift stride into the heart of the village where the Chargers' camp lies. Their tents are pitched, and he can hear Grim playing his pipes. When he rounds the corner, he can see Dalish and Skinner dancing together, and just on the other side of the ring from them, Krem is sitting, clapping along in time, a wide smile on his face. That familiar face, warm and flushed, turns to look as Fenris appears at the edge of their camp, and his grin only grows. Krem stands, and leaves off his keeping time to edge around the women and go to Fenris's side.

Fenris can only stare, and when Krem get close enough he seizes him, dragging their bodies close until he can bury his face in Krem's neck and breath him in. Krem is laughing, and he runs his hands over Fenris's hair and neck and back, and he says, “Whoa, hey, easy. It hasn't been  _ that  _ long since we've seen each other.”

Fenris can only shake his head and hold Krem tightly. Krem catches on quickly that there is more than separation fuelling Fenris's desperation, and he wraps his arms around Fenris's back and holds him impossibly closer, uncaring that the hard edges of Fenris's armour are digging into his unprotected ribs. “Hey,” Krem says, and kisses the side of Fenris's head, catching the tip of his ear.

Fenris drags in a rough breath, and against Krem's skin, he murmurs, “Our tent, please?”

“Of course,” Krem says gently, and he disentangles himself from Fenris with aching care and leads him to the tent they share. Inside, Krem's bedroll is set up, messy as he always leaves it; Fenris always neatens their blankets in the morning before they leave their tent, and without him, there would have been no one there to do it. Bleakly, Fenris wonders if Krem has taken up the habit when he'd thought Fenris dead, or if his carelessness had only increased. Fenris cannot propel himself down to their bed, and instead lets Krem tug him down, arranging him into a kneeling position and delivering a quiet order to strip out of his armour. Fenris does it automatically, discarding his gear into a neat pile to be tended later, and then strips out of his shirt as well, lying down on the disordered bed and reaching up for Krem.

Krem strips his top layers off, including his binder, to Fenris's distant surprise. It's rare for Krem to go without some kind of binding for his breasts, but he's glad for the expanse of skin that is left bare, and he wraps his arms around Krem's waist, pulling him close until it seems like every inch of them is touching. Krem pulls the blankets over both of them, until they are cocooned in warmth, and everything is muted except for each others' breathing and the soft sound of Grim's pipes, filtering through the thick canvas of their tent.

“What happened?” Krem asks, stroking a hand down Fenris's spine. He avoids touching the lyrium marks, and Fenris wiggles closer.

“The magister was experimenting with time magic,” Fenris begins, and slowly the whole story spills out, in halting pieces. Telling Krem about this is different than telling the Iron Bull, not least because his reactions are so clear. Fenris can feel the hike in his heartbeat when he speaks of the red lyrium, can hear the hitch of Krem's breath next to his ear when he tells him that Fenris had been believed dead. But he can also feel the touch of Krem's hands on his back and his sides, can hear his comforting murmurs and sympathetic sighs. When he speaks of Krem's death, and what the corrupted Iron Bull had told him about Krem's last moments, Krem draws away slightly to meet Fenris's eyes.

“I would have been glad not to find you on the other side,” Krem says. “If it meant you were still alive, I would have been glad, even if I had to be alone. I would have been happy to wait. I love you, Fenris, and I know that that me would be just as glad you were still alive as this me is. I love you. I love you.” He kisses Fenris, then, soft and sweet.

Krem clutches Fenris tighter when he tells of the final battle against Alexius, of Nirem's decision to grant Felix what little mercy was left to him. It had been a sort of ruthlessness that Fenris had not realized Nirem was capable of, but then, he tells Krem, Nirem is Dalish, and none of them are soft. They don't have that option, any more than any elf in Thedas does. As a people, they have become hardened; in some cases that means cruelty, in others desperation, in many apathy or bitterness. Even Merrill, sweet as she was, had never been  _ soft _ . Krem kisses Fenris again then, and whispers how glad he is that Fenris returned, that they won the fight and made it back in time.

“None of it will be real,” Krem says, a promise in his voice, in the earnestness of his gaze. “Nirem wouldn't let it, and anyway, you're here. Even if he doesn't succeed, we'll at least be together.”

Fenris closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Krem's. “I need you,” he says, and Krem laughs, running his hands down Fenris's sides, then leaning in to kiss him once more. Their mouths slide open together, and soft comfort turns quickly to rising heat. Fenris twists to press Krem down beneath him, and Krem kicks out of his trousers and smalls, spreading his legs for Fenris's seeking hand. He gasps when Fenris cups him, and stifles his quiet moans in another kiss as Fenris slides two fingers along his slit, gathering slick.

“Gentle,” Krem says, and takes a shuddering breath, arching into Fenris's finger on his clit. It's not enough contact, not nearly; Fenris wants to burrow inside in every possible way, but he knows that Krem is right to remind him. He's torn between the desire to go slow, to relish every moment, every touch, every breath, and the pressing need to have Krem surrounding him inescapably.

He finds a well of patience somewhere, and is able to take his time in sliding his fingers into Krem's body, opening him up, feeling him grow wet and relaxed, until finally Krem says, “Please.” Then it's all Fenris can do not to tear the laces from his breeches as he fights his way out of them. Krem's hands are splayed across his back, his mouth hot on Fenris's throat as he sinks inside, slowly, so slowly; all of it feels so good. The intensity of the moment is overwhelming, not because of arousal, but from the sheer joy of connection, reconnection after fear. Krem's body is a welcome home, and Fenris barely needs to move at all before Krem is coming around him, clenching tight.

“Oh,” Krem says, like his climax had surprised him, and maybe it had – he's usually slow to peak, and Fenris is usually easy; today, the opposite it true. They make careful love for what feels like hours before orgasm washes over Fenris, dragging him down into the undertow. The world fades away, leaving only the heat of Krem beneath him, the intimacy of their embrace, the soft electricity of connection in all the places they touch. When Fenris returns to himself, he withdraws just enough to sink below the blankets and press his mouth between Krem's legs, lapping their mingled essences from him until Krem peaks again, his hands tight in Fenris's hair and his voice filling the air between them with cries of Fenris's name.

Fenris crawls back up through their bedroll and collapses partially on top of Krem, and is content to doze there, only stirring when Krem rises to slip back into a pair of comfortable sleeping pants. It's the middle of the day, but Fenris would be quite happy to sleep forever, and Krem seems to have no inclination to disturb him. Fenris drifts off, waking briefly a few times, once when Krem leaves and returns with a hunk of bread and cheese, a few bites of which he forces Fenris to eat, and again a little later when Krem is gone for a longer period. Fernis can hear the Iron Bull's voice as a low rumble through the walls of the tent, and doesn't rise, but listens sleepily to their voices. He cannot discern the conversation, and doesn't care to get up and find out. When Krem returns, he slips away again, this time with his lover in his arms. He doesn't wake again until morning, and when he does, the world seems brighter.

“Good morning,” Krem says, and kisses the corner of Fenris's mouth. “Did you have a nice nap? Only fifteen hours or so.”

Fenris snorts. “I slept quite well, thank you,” he says, and it's the truth.

“Good to know. It's nearly dawn; the other elves will be waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” Fenris smiles and kisses Krem's cheek, and then rises, ready once more to face the day.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S STILL THURSDAY. SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE, SHIT'S BEEN CRAY LATELY.
> 
> Also, sorry for the short update, I wrote almost all of this today. It's very unedited. Just. Sorry about everything. Enjoy.

Fenris did not go with the party of mages and Inquisition soldiers up the mountain to the Breach. The concentration of magic would have caused him considerable pain, and he wasn't needed; though many of the mages had no real battle training, they could all cast some sort of offensive spell, and they had plenty of numbers. Nirem and his small party were plenty to be reckoned with alone. So the Chargers remained, guarding Haven and watching the sky. It had seemed like a small eternity before the Breach, high above them and far away, had flared and then snapped shut.

A cheer goes up from the watchers when the Breach closes, Fenris among them, his voice rising along side Krem's and Dalish's and Skinner's, and the voices of all the other Chargers, and all the townsfolk of Haven, and many other beside. All across Thedas, people will be looking to the sky and cheering; this is a true triumph. Fenris hopes that Nirem survived the effort. The magic that had created the mark on his hand is utterly unknown, and caused him pain from time to time. It will be a day until they know, time enough for the party to make its way back down the mountain. They'd reached the Breach quickly, which suggested they'd encountered no trouble.

Sure enough, late in the afternoon the next day, Nirem appears at the gates of Haven, looking tired but triumphant. He raises his hand high, the mark shining as he greeted the cheering crowd. He doesn't quail, though Fenris can see from his vantage point higher up in the town that there is iron in Nirem's spine, holding him steady. He's steeled himself against this, and is not glad for the publicity. Fenris doesn't blame him.

The party had begun as soon as the Breach closed, but now, with the Herald back among them, it  _ really _ begins, people lighting bonfires and setting out food. Fenris indulges in a single dance with Krem, whirling him beside the fire, listening to his laughter, and then he goes to seek out Nirem. He finds him looking over the people of Haven, watching their celebration with a remote look in his eye. Cassandra is beside him, and Fenris lets them finish their conversation before he interrupts.

"Congratulations," he says, when she steps away.

"Thank you," Nirem says quietly. "It was... it hurt. But I lived."

"You did. Will you return to your clan, now? Or stay?"

"There are rifts yet to close," Nirem says, "and I still have no idea what this mark is. I'd like some answers before I return to the Free Marches."

Fenris nods. "Fair enough." He's quiet for a moment, then he says, "Now that the Breach is closed, the Inquisition's role will change. You know that, right?"

"I suppose," Nirem sighs. Before he can say more, though, a cry goes up from the gate. Fenris and Nirem both turn their eyes to the wall of Haven, and then beyond, to the light of the torches gathering on the hillside, the dots of illumination swarming across the snow like ants.

Fenris doesn't need to say anything; nor Nirem. They take off together, running, Nirem for the gate and Fenris for his tent to retrieve his sword. The Chargers are already arming up in their small tent enclosure, filling pouches and grabbing weapons. Fenris armours quickly, and grabs his sword, then takes off at a run for the front gate. Krem, his voice raised, rallying the troops, is just behind him. They make the gate just in time to see Nirem open it for a slim, pale boy in a large hat to slip through. He's saying something barely understandable, but Nirem is listening intently, and Fenris turns his attention away, looking to the Iron Bull for orders.

"Ready, boys? There's an army coming over the hill," the Bull says, his voice a growl.

"Yes, ser," says Krem, coming up on Fenris's shoulder. He's got his stone maul braced against his elbow, his posture slightly slouched to accomodate its weight. It's such a familiar stance by now; Fenris can't help but let his eyes linger there. The past has been haunting him lately, but these small reminder of his new life are golden and warm. The other Chargers fall into formation behind Krem, and together, they wait for new orders.

They're not waiting long. Nirem takes the Iron Bull to go help arm the trebuchets; the Chargers are set to protecting the townspeople as they fall back within Haven's walls. The town isn't really equipped to stand against any real assault, but they may save some lives if they act quickly. Cullen rallies his own troops, and they set to work.

Their foes are Templars, corrupted and sick with red lyrium. Fenris can hear the song of it; his own markings burn and itch beneath his skin. It's a distraction he cannot afford, not when contact with one of the lyrium behemoths or even a normal red Templar soldier could easily spell his death. The other Chargers know full-well Fenris's vulnerability, and they do their best to watch his back, but he and Krem make up the front line of their formation, and he cannot stay out of the fray.

The fight seems endless; there are too many. The waves come as inexorably as the waves of the sea. And then, just as Fenris and the Chargers have settled fully into their battle rhythm, something huge and black and red swoops down out of the sky and blasts one of the trebuchets into smithereens, sending screaming soldiers flying and opening a path for further red Templars to come storming in toward Haven. The order comes to retreat, and they do so with alacrity, falling back into the city and hurrying civilians toward the relative safe haven of the Chantry. There's only so much that can be done; the town is burning, and there is blood on the snow. Still, Fenris fights, until his leathers are soaked with sweat and there is blood running from a cut above his eye. None of the Chargers are in better shape. Finally, they too are forced to fall back further, defending the doors of the Chantry until Cullen arrives, wild-eyed and with a bared blade, to urge them inside.

They take the respite that is offered to them, letting Chantry sisters and civilian healers bandage their wounds and offer them bread and water. Not so long after, Nirem comes stumbling into the Chantry as well, followed by Varric, the Iron Bull, and Pavus; behind them comes the pale boy from the gate, carrying Chancellor Roderick.

Fenris, from his seat on a barrel, can hear only snatches of the conversation. Skinner is sitting closer, and once they stop speaking, she comes over to relay what was said.

"We're to evacuate Haven," she tells the other Chargers quietly. "There are too many of them. But Roderick knows a back passage up into the mountains, and we're to go that way."

"And what's to stop them from simply following us?" Stitches demands, his hand clenched on the pommel of his sword. "We'll end up with swords in our backs as we flee, all of us."

"The Herald is staying behind."

Fenris closes his eyes. Somehow, he had expected that. And yet... "Alone?" he asks.

"Yes," Skinner says. "He'll have an escort while he positions the last trebuchet, and then they're to go; he'll trigger it."

"He's bringing an avalanche down on Haven," Krem says quietly. "There's no way he'll survive."

Fenris cannot listen to more. He jumps lightly off of the barrel and stalks over to where Nirem is standing, near the doors of the Chantry, speaking to Pavus.

"- need your magic," Nirem is saying in a low tone. "There's a blizzard blowing in, and the civilians will never survive without the mages' protection. You have strong fire magic, Dorian; don't let me down."

"Of course," Pavus replies, his voice hollow. "Of course, anything." He looks up and sees Fenris, and says, "I'll leave you two to talk."

He doesn't meet Fenris's eyes as he walks away; all the better, Fenris thinks. "Nirem," Fenris says.

"I know it's foolish," Nirem sighs. He looks up, meeting Fenris's green eyes with his own, just a few shades brighter, now made dull with resignation. "But my life is not worth the dozens sheltered here. You'll get them out, Fenris. I'm just making sure you  _ stay _ safe."

"Self-sacrifice is always idiocy," Fenris says. "You are needed still. Let someone else do it."

Nirem looks at him steadily for a moment, then says, "I was in line to become warleader of my clan, did you know that? I... forgot that, almost, so caught up was I in everything that's been happening here. In meeting you. For all the danger, this was the sort of grand adventure I dreamed of as a child, and I was  _ living it _ . Of course I let myself become childish. But now, here, I have to be the Warleader of the Inquisition, and that means doing what must be done to protect these people, no matter the cost to myself."

"... Your death will be a true waste," Fenris says. "For what it is worth, I will mourn you."

"Say a prayer to Fen'Harel for me, Fenris," Nirem says, a little bitter, a little amused. "You know the nature of wolves well enough to know how to ask him, and anyway, he's the only one that's listening."

Fenris doesn't know the Dalish deities beside the few odd stories Merrill had told them in Kirkwall, but he knows that Fen'Harel is a fickle deity who granted wishes only at a steep cost. Still, he had never, in those stories, turned down someone who truly needed his help, and if this moment was not one of need, there was no such thing. "As you wish," Fenris says, and goes to kiss Krem, and then to pray.

 

True to Nirem's word, a blizzard blows in. They push through the wind and whirling snow as far as they could, up, up, up into the mountain pass, but there are children and elderly folk and wounded among the Haven refugees, and they had saved only a few wagons and brontos; most everything had been lost under the vast fall of snow that had been brought down upon the town. They could go back and dig through the wreckage later, and some things might be salvaged then, but for now they have little.

Varric, the Iron Bull, and Pavus catch up within an hour of the last of the civilans escaping Haven, and only shortly before that had arrived all had stopped and watched in solemn silence as the avalanche consumed homes and hearths, and somewhere, in all that, Nirem Lavellan. They would find his body later; it would likely be well-preserved by the cold and the weight of the snow. The Chantry folk would want an Andrastian service, but the Dalish did not cremate their dead, and Fenris quietly resolves to prevent them from building a pyre. His remains should be returned to his people and buried in the land that raised him.

Fenris doesn't spare much time for grief. Nirem is a great loss, and as he had promised, he _will_ mourn. But now is not the time. He must invest his energy in pitching tents and stoking fires, wrapping wounds and splinting bones. He's only half a medic and less than that a cook, but he does what he can, working beside the other Chargers and whoever else has their feet under them. Weariness is omnipresent and oppressive, but they must persevere. The lives for which Nirem gave his own must be preserved.

Cullen had given orders for signal fires to be left behind them as they traveled. Fenris finds the blind hope tastes bitter, but many eyes are cast backward, looking for a slim silhouette in the blinding snow. Nirem is dead, Fenris thinks to himself. Dead of the same naivety that now fuels their hopes. But he says nothing, and accepts Krem's embrace when he offers it. He has no hope, but he will not deprive anyone else of comfort.

The night is long and freezing. Fenris begins to think he will never feel his fingers again, but he has the fortitude to stay awake and alert where many of the green Inquisition soldiers do not. He and Skinner end up keeping watch together, though it feels more like a vigil as they sit side-by-side by one of the fires and stare out into the greyness of the storm and listen to the howling of wolves and wind as it echoes between the cliffs. Eventually, their relief comes in the form of Krem and the Iron Bull, walking close together. There's a kind of desolation behind the Bull's eyes that makes Fenris lay a hand on his arm. The Bull says nothing; he doesn't need to. The camp is quiet all around them.

"What's that?" says Skinner. Fenris jumps at the suddenness of her speech. But he follows her pointing finger, looking back in the direction of Haven, where at the top of a rise a faint shadow has appeared in the snow. The Iron Bull and Krem look as well, but neither has night vision comparable to an elf's, and they are blind. And yet, Fenris sees well what Skinner has seen: that shadow is the shadow of a man.

Fenris races for the edge of camp, Skinner on his heels, the others behind. He startles Cullen as they go past, and the man shouts a query, but Fenris does not answer. This is _not possible_.

And yet, when they reach the edge of camp, it seems it is. "It's him!" cries Cullen, coming up behind them. Fenris stops dead, staring at the figure that has stumbled up the rise and collapsed. "It's the Herald!"

Once more crawled from the jaws of death, frozen and unconscious in Cullen's arms as they bring him down into camp: yes. This is Nirem Lavellan, somehow returned. _Not possible_ , Fenris thinks again. Beside him, Krem is laughing, almost hysterical. Fenris can only stand and let his lover lean on him as he laughs, and stare into the dying remnants of the storm, and consider miracles.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many meetings.

Solas pulls Nirem aside, and when they come back, they have their heads leaned together, conferring quietly on something. Fenris doesn't ask. He's not sure what he's feeling – relief, exasperation, maybe a little bit of nostalgia for the last time he followed someone with this kind of effect on the normal, logical workings of the world.

Nirem gives them a heading in the morning, and as a vast caravan, they set off, trekking up and up and up through the mountains. The snow is heavy all around them, and makes for slow going, but between horses and brontos and soldiers, they manage. The rhythm of travel is comfortable, familiar, and Fenris is able to sink himself into the mindset of a job, as if this were just one more assignment for the Chargers, and not the fate of the world. He and Krem curl together each night in their shared tent, and rise together in the mornings. There's no time for any intimacies beside the small ones, but just living beside his lover, working beside him: that much is enough.

And then, near a week into their journey, they come to the top of a rise, and look down upon the citadel spread below them. Sturdy stone walls, roofs, and a gate. Some rubble is visible, but the place looks fortified down to its foundations, and that is the greatest reassurance Fenris has ever had. A safe place, where the Inquisition can make its home.

“That's pretty impressive,” Krem says, wrapping an arm around Fenris's waist. “Wonder whose ass Lavellan pulled that one out of?”

Fenris snorts. “The apostate's, I believe.”

“Does seem like something Solas would know about,” Krem agrees. “Let's go check it out.”

The Inquistion makes its meandering way down the hillside toward the keep, their pace sped by light hearts, and Nirem is at the forefront, the first to stride through the keep's gates. He turns in the courtyard and welcome people, one by one, suggesting directions for soldiers to venture in in small groups, pointing out a place for civilians to gather with all their supplies. The keep is definitely damaged; there's rubble and refuse scattered everyone, but even as Fenris steps through the gates, people are beginning to move the mess into manageable piles, gathering usable wood and stone, and peeling moss from the cracks in the stone. Dennet, with his train of horses and other mixed mounts, makes a beeline for the barn that Fenris can see in the distance. Fenris takes up a guard's stance at the gate, watching as the column filters in and making sure everyone sees Nirem for an order.

“He's really come into his own,” says someone at Fenris's shoulder. It's not Krem – he's gone off to help some other men move a block of stone. Fenris turns, and is surprised to see Cullen standing there. They haven't spoken much so far.

“Yes,” Fenris agrees. “He mentioned that he was in training to become Warleader of his clan. He has had the skills the entire time, but now he has the confidence to use them.”

Cullen nods, his gaze on Nirem and far away. “I think I can follow him.”

Fenris considers that statement. “He is trustworthy.”

“Unlike most of the other commanders I've had; yes.” Cullen smiles wryly, and then ducks his head. “You weren't in Kirkwall at the end.”

“No.”

“Meredith... it was bad.”

“Varric has told me some,” Fenris says. He eyes Cullen carefully, then says, “Now is not the time, I think. We have had a considerable victory, and no small thanks is owed to you for that, Cullen.” Cullen starts at Fenris's use of his name, and then flushes at the praise. Fenris clears his throat. “We can dwell on the past later.”

“Sure enough,” Cullen says, and then bows shallowly to Fenris and strides away. He'd been of high rank in Kirkwall, Fenris remembers, but he'd never had the air of authority that he now wears as comfortably as he wears his furred mantle. Nirem, Fenris muses, is not the only one who has come into his own.

The day wears on, and then fades into the next one. The Iron Bull claims a section of what is becoming the barracks for the Chargers, and they move themselves in there. Nirem spends a great deal of time cloistered away in the main hall, conferring with Cullen, Seeker Cassandra, the Spymaster, and the Ambassador. It becomes easy to think of them as his advisers, and he seems to do a mix of giving them orders and running errands in the keep (Skyhold, Krem tells him it's called) based on their suggestions. Fenris only sees Nirem briefly, here and there; he's busy with his own work, clearing rubble, reconstructing walls, and assisting with the exploration of the keep. Refugees and increasing numbers of pilgrims pour in every day, seeking safety or a glimpse of the famous Herald of Andraste, who had walked out of the grasp of death twice.

Once, Fenris finds Nirem sleeping on a patch of grass tucked against one of the outer walls, with the pale blond boy from Haven crouched by his head.

The boy looks up at Fenris as he approaches, and says, “He's dreaming of home.”

Fenris doesn't bother to ask how the boy knows. He's not surprised, either. “I had no plans to disturb him,” he says quietly, and shrugs off his cloak, draping it over the boy. Nirem snuggles into the warmth immediately, and Fenris's expression softens before he walks away.

When Nirem is called up onto the walkway above the heads of all of the gathered Inquisition and made Inquisitor, Fenris remembers that moment. He's still a boy, young and already so tired; this is unfair. But he has borne up too well under his responsibilities, and it was almost a certainty that he would be named leader of the Inquisition. He'll do right by them all, Fenris knows. His clear statement about his determination to do what is right only clinches that in Fenris's mind; he has faith. Whether Nirem was chosen by Andraste or not, he is the right person to lead. Fenris has had poor luck in masters in his life, but he feels confident: he is following good people now.

 

“Serah Fenris.”

Fenris looks up from the book he had been flipping through and scowls. Solas is standing there, a benign look on his face. Fenris had known that coming to the library would put him in the vicinity of two of his least favourite people in the Inquisition, but he'd hoped they would both leave him alone until he could retrieve a novel and get out again. “What?” he asks, and snaps the book shut.

“I was hoping I might be able to take up a moment of your time.”

“You already have,” Fenris says. “What do you _want_?”

Solas sighs, a condescending noise, like Fenris's irritation is an imposition, when the only one wasting their time is _him_. “Would you be willing to allow me to look at your markings? The full pattern.”

“No.”

“You won't even consider it?”

“ _No_.” The markings cover Fenris's entire body, including several rather intimate locations. He has no intention of stripping down to his smalls to satisfy some mage's sick curiosity, and he tells Solas as much. “Moreover,” Fenris continues, “even if I _were_ inclined, you would need to have my trust. You are possibly the least trustworthy person I have ever met, and I have or have had in my close acquaintance a Rivaini pirate, not a few Tevinter magisters, and Varric Tethras.”

Solas tilts his head. “I suppose I cannot deny that,” he says. “If you ever change your mind, please let me know.”

Fenris only rolls his eyes. He'll be dead first. At least Solas leaves after that, and Fenris is allowed to go back to browsing the shelves, looking for something that was scribed by someone with a readable hand, and won't bore him to tears. His literacy has increased thanks to the Iron Bull, who insists that all his mercenaries be able to read and write well, and Fenris does enjoy reading, but most of this library consists of academic texts which are intensely dry or else far too technical.

“Was that _Solas_ ? What in the Maker's name did _he_ want?”

Fenris nearly groans aloud. When he turns his glare over his shoulder onto Pavus, the altus seems surprised to see exactly who it is that he had bothered. Never mind that Fenris is probably the only white-haired elf in the Inquisition.

“He was _prying_ ,” Fenris says. He does not say _fuck off_ , but it's implied. Pavus stares at him wide-eyed for a moment, and then _actually leaves_ . Fenris shakes his head, snatches the first thing that looks like fiction from the shelf, and gets out of the library before any _other_ mages can come ask him obnoxious questions.

 

It's some days before Fenris sees Nirem again, after his appointment as Inquisitor. He had taken a jaunt down to the Hinterlands, but when he comes back, he comes to see Fenris. It's a little startling to have the Inquisitor himself show up in the barracks, and there are quite a few soldiers standing at attention in the hall when Nirem leads Fenris back out of the barracks, citing a desire for some privacy.

“I felt you should hear this from me,” Nirem says, leading Fenris out to an isolated section of the walls. They stand side-by-side for some time, looking out at the mountains, the white snow reflecting the sun into brilliant, shattered light.

Finally, Nirem takes a deep breath, then says, “I'm planning to pursue Dorian. As a lover. I though I should tell you, so that when the gossip gets inevitably worse, you won't have to hear it fifth-hand from some soldier.”

Fenris's jaw is clenched, but he manages to speak through gritted teeth. “I need not tell you that I consider this the height of idiocy.”

“No, you don't,” Nirem says. There's steel in his voice. “I didn't want you to react poorly, Fenris, so I'm doing you a courtesy, and I'm doing it because I consider you my friend. You may not be one of my travelling companions, like the Iron Bull, or Varric, but I value your advice and your companionship. Don't force me to throw that away.”

Fenris closes his eyes. He doesn't know how to explain that his anger is not fuelled entirely by hatred. More than a little of it is _concern_. “I spent years in a magister's bed,” he says finally. “It was not my choice, and I am well aware that that makes a difference. But elves are toys to them, especially when they can make you want them. Be careful.”

“He doesn't see me that way,” Nirem says, and then laughs a little. “To be frank, I'm not sure he even started taking my flirting seriously until we reached Skyhold, and even then. Dorian left Tevinter for good reasons, Fenris, and though he is misled in many ways, he's not so hopeless as you seem to think. In any case: now you know. I don't know what will come of it, but I promise to tell you if he hurts me, so that you can break his face.”

Fenris can tell that Nirem is joking, but he takes him seriously anyway. “I will hold you to that,” he says, meeting Nirem's eyes firmly, and then he walks down to the barracks to find Krem and try to forget for a while about the vast mistake Nirem is making. He knows he cannot stop him, and will not try. He forces himself not to find Dorian instead, and threaten him. He can do that later, when he's calmer. For now, Krem, and an entire bottle of wine, if possible. Never mind that it's noon.

 

A tug on Fenris's sleeve draws his attention down to his left, where Varric is standing with a sheepish expression on his face.

"What did you do?" Fenris asks.

"Now, why would you say something like that, Broody?"

Fenris narrows his eyes.

"... Right." Varric sighs. "So, it's possible that maybe I sent a letter to Hawke. Also maybe possibly a small chance that she... showed up in Skyhold this morning. With Anders. And I suppose there _might_ be a faint glimmer of the idea that the Inquisitor's meeting with her right now on the battlements, and Anders is waiting outside the gate until he gets word that he's not just going to be killed on sight, or captured and made Tranquil?"

" _Varric_."

"I know! I know. I just - well, look, Cassandra's yelled at me already, and if Fidget wasn't such a nice kid he'd probably be a lot more displeased with me - as it is he wasn't happy. So... sorry. Please don't kill me?"

Fenris only shakes his head and turns on his heel, leaving Varric standing there, staring after him. For a moment he's torn; does he go to the battlements, or not? It's been years since he's seen Hawke, and they have such weighty history. Not so long ago he wasn't nearly ready to see her again. But she's never entirely left his mind. _You never forget your first love,_ Krem had once whispered to him in the dead of night, when Fenris had confessed to him his lingering... not love for her, so much as curiosity and distant care. It was true: he'd never forget her. And here she was, returned once more. _Like a bad penny_ , was one of the Iron Bull's turns of phrase.

The feeling of conflict only lasts as long as it takes for him to see the distant figures standing one the battlements. She makes a striking silhouette in the armour of the Champion; she'd not worn it often, but she'd always worn it well. Next to her, Nirem seems like a slim bit of elven nothing, and yet his back is straight and to the sun, and its halo around him is blinding. Fenris mounts the walls slowly, stopping out of the sphere of their notice, and observing the conversation. These are powerful people. The only other one comparable is the Hero of Ferelden; all others of this caliber are long dead. Thedas has been wanting for shining folk to place up on a pedestal, and in the last ten years, there has been a golden triad, a true wealth. Fenris doesn't know what to think of it, other than that he has been blessed (or perhaps cursed) to live in such interesting times.

Hawke has her back to him; she'll not notice him before Nirem does, unless she turns, but she has nothing like his situational awareness, and he'll probably spot Fenris first in any case. Fenris takes the opportunity to observe her. Her armour hangs a little loosely on her, but her shoulders are straight, and what of her voice that is not snatched by the wind is strong and steady, as it ever was. Her hair is shorter, not so clean. She's been living on the road. It wouldn't be a surprise to Fenris to hear that she'd stopped in Kirkwall on her way to Skyhold to collect the mantle of her station; it's not the sort of thing she'd travel in even if it was at all practical. She'd always liked skirts, Fenris remembers, and his mind conjures a heady sense memory of her pressed tight against his chest as they danced to silent music in the front hall of her home. He'd dipped her at the end of that dance and pressed a kiss to her throat, and then taken her to bed and slid his hands up those skirts to find that she'd forgone smalls.

How many years ago had that been? Five? Eight? Not ten, certainly, but... enough to feel like a lifetime. He was a changed man from who he had been in the days when he had so often pressed kisses to that alabaster skin. His tastes ran darker now, and less epic; he was simpler. A disappointment for Varric, surely, but a blessing in all other ways.

"Ah - I believe I should take my leave," Nirem says, loud enough for Fenris to hear it clearly. Fenris's attention snaps back to the present day, and he finds that Nirem's Fade-green eyes are on him. "I... imagine you two have a lot to talk about."

Fenris clears his throat. Hawke turns. Stops. Her blue eyes go wide. "Thank you, Inquisitor," Fenris says. He doesn't look away from her. Nirem bows in the corner of Fenris's vision, and walks away, leaving Fenris alone with Hawke on the high battlement, with the wind snatching at the end of his ponytail and ruffling the fur of her collar.

"Hello, Hawke," Fenris says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, with a side of Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I meant to get back to this story so much sooner. I also meant to finish it before posting anything else. I had ALSO meant to finish it before the end of the year, but here we are on New Year's Eve and it's not done.
> 
> Still, it will eventually be finished. Probably slowly - don't expect a chapter a week. But I'll get it done eventually. I expect another two chapters, maybe, plus an epilogue.
> 
> Enjoy!

"It's been a long time."

Hawke laughs, a little choked up. She's backlit by the sun, but Fenris can see enough to think that maybe she's teared up. "You can say that again," she says, and steps forward, her hand coming up as if to reach out to him. At the last moment, she lowers it again. "I wasn't expecting..."

Fenris smiles, a little wry. "I've been expecting to meet you again for years," he says. "In all honesty, I am more surprised it took so long than anything else."

"I suppose you're right." Hawke sighs. "How - how are you?"

"I'm well. I hope you can say the same."

She shrugs. "Yes and no. The life of the apostate on the run isn't really very appealing to me. I understand now why my mother was so desperate to settle in Kirkwall when the opportunity came, even with how much of a shithole it is."

Fenris laughs. "True enough. You have been aiding the mage rebellion, then?"

"Yes. I can imagine your objections - you needn't list them."

"I was going to say that you're doing good work," Fenris says, tilting his head slightly. The bitterness in her voice is an unwelcome echo of Anders, but it's no surprise, really. It is interesting to look at her and realize that life has worn her down as much as it has built him up.

Hawke blinks, shocked. "Well, that's a change."

"It's been years, Hawke. Surely you cannot imagine I am exactly the man I once was."

She's quiet for a long time, and then she says, "No. I've changed, too."

Fenris only nods, and steps forward to look her in the eye properly, fitting the jagged edges of the woman that is standing before him against the traces of the woman he once knew. "Somehow, I thought I would have more to say to you," he says. "There was much left unsaid between us. But, standing here, now... I find that those words are the words of a younger man, meant for a younger woman. People in love. We are strangers now, Hawke."

Hawke makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and raises a hand to place it across her eyes, a delicate gesture that he remembers clearly. She'd never been easy to upset, but he had always had a talent for it.

"I'm sorry," he says, and reaches out, wrapping his fingers gently around her wrist and drawing her hand away from her face.

"Don't apologize," she says. "Don't. It's me who should be apologizing - for so much. For everything I didn't say. For a lot of the things I did. I failed you terribly, Fenris."

"The road has been long and hard, but I am glad to have the life I have," Fenris says. "And if that does not salve your guilt, you are guilty for the wrong reasons. You've done no lasting harm to me, Hawke. I would not be who I am without you, certainly, and I will never regret knowing you. I will never regret having loved you. I hope there is some peace for you in that."

She just looks at him, with wide eyes and parted lips. She's so beautiful. He'd nearly forgotten. And yet, the stunning quality of her appearance has faded some over the years - perhaps because she has aged, perhaps because he has, or perhaps simply because he loves another, now, and her face no longer fills him up as it once had. She is no longer the heart of him. Until now, he'd not been sure, but now he knows. It's a freeing feeling; his past can once more be placed behind him, and, if not forgotten, then no longer brooded over like a festering wound.

"Welcome to Skyhold," Fenris says, gently. He lets go of Hawke's wrist. "Take care, Hawke. I'll see you around, I'm sure."

 

The world moves, and Fenris moves with it. He makes love to Krem, he goes on a mission with the Chargers, he spends evenings in the tavern with his companions, with Varric, with Nirem. He gives Solas dirty looks when he catches the mage watching him; he gives Pavus dirty looks largely for existing. At one point he walks through the library to find Pavus and Nirem wrapped in an embrace, and takes it upon himself to clear his throat loudly. The way they spring apart, blushing brilliantly, is deeply satisfying.

At some point, Anders is allowed into Skyhold. He skulks in Hawke's shadows for the most part, when he leaves the quarters they are assigned at all. Mostly, he stays hidden. For the best, Fenris thinks; Cullen would probably kill him if he caught him without Hawke, and not without justification. The same temptation has never quite left Fenris, and when he does see Anders hovering at Hawke's shoulder, he usually has to go find Krem shortly after, and bury his face in his lover's neck until the agitation fades. He doesn't want the reminder of the past, if he's being honest with himself.

Nirem begins planning a venture to the Western Approach, a place Fenris has never been, and from the description the Iron Bull gives, a place he has no desire to ever go. Fenris enjoys heat; he does _not_ enjoy sand. Even the temptation of hunting down blood mages isn't enough to make Fenris (or any of the Chargers) envy their leader his duty in accompanying the Inquisitor into the desert. Just before Nirem and his company, including Hawke, are due to depart, the Chargers get sent on a mission, and the Iron Bull informs them that they'll be taking Anders with them, to Fenris's displeasure.

"He can't be left in Skyhold," the Bull explains, "and neither myself, Nirem, or Varric are particularly comfortable having him along. Some combination of 'possessed mage' and 'fucked-up history'."

"I have very valid concerns based on _both_ of those things," Fenris says, but Krem places a hand on his shoulder, staying further argument.

"I'll keep an eye on him, Chief," Krem says. "Stay out of trouble."

The Iron Bull nods and leaves them to their preparations. They're being sent to roam across the countryside in pursuit of leads on Venatori provided by Pavus. It'll be a few weeks of travelling, scouting mostly, with potential for battle. Hence why the Chargers are being sent. They have experience fighting mages, particularly Tevinter trained mages, which is unusual in the south, and they're set up for the kind of extended travel required by the mission without having to sacrifice fighting strength for speed and mobility. Fenris isn't entirely sure he's comfortable hunting Tevinter mages with no leads but one provided by another Tevinter mage, but he's not the person who gets to make that call. And, despite his reluctance, he's also not the one who gets to make the call about Anders.

The truth is, he thinks, watching the mage's back the following morning as they begin the ride down the mountain, the mage isn't so bad. He at least seems to have learned from discretion in the intervening years, if his avoidance of Cullen is anything to go by, and for the moment at least he's keeping to himself. The feathered cloak is gone, replaced with a simple mage's robe in the style of those worn by the Inquisition's mage allies, and the staff slung across his back has a blade at the end - clearly Hawke has rubbed off on him.

Maybe in more ways than one, he muses, and then shakes the thought away. It doesn't bother him as much as it once would have to think of Hawke and Anders coming together in that way, but it's still not a particularly tasteful line of consideration.

Fenris sighs, shakes his head. Krem, beside him, turns to give him a curious look.

"Only my wandering thoughts," Fenris murmurs, and reaches out. Krem reaches in turn, and they clasp hands between themselves.

"Don't wander too far," Krem says. "You'll get lost."

"Not with you to remind me of the way home," Fenris says, and when he looks ahead again, he sees that Anders has turned his head, just slightly, listening. Fenris doesn't bark at him to stop eavesdropping, and he doesn't drop Krem's hand for another long minute. "Thank you," he says, when he does.

"Of course," Krem says. "I'm going to go ahead a bit."

Fenris nods, and watches as Krem nudges his horse forward to the head of the group, leading them down the through the mountain pass to the Hinterlands. They'll spend a week stalking the Venatori in the Hinterlands, and then go on to the Exalted Plains to do a sweep there - those are the places Dorian's tips lead them. It'll be a long few weeks, and probably exhausting; they'll be keeping a double night watch: one person to watch for bears and Red Templars, and one person to watch the possessed mage sleeping in their midst. Fenris has volunteered for as many watch shifts as Krem would let him.

It takes them a few days to get down the mountain, and most of a week to scout out the first Venatori camp. Fenris really wants to charge in and just fucking kill them, because they could definitely take a half-dozen shivering Venatori, but Krem says no, so Fenris sighs and subsides. It gets him an odd look from Anders, and that night, Fenris finds himself with company on the watch.

"You didn't even listen that well to Hawke," Anders says, sitting down next to Fenris with his tatty coat wrapped around his shoulders. He sticks out his hands to warm them by the fire, and Fenris can see in the flickering light them one of his fingers is crooked, clearly broken and healed incorrectly; he also has new callouses, more consistent with knifework than staff-fighting.

"Hawke was never my commander," Fenris says.

"You followed her orders in battle. You _followed_ her."

Fenris shrugs. "I followed her first out of debt, and then out of love. I follow the Iron Bull because he hired me, and Krem because he is the Iron Bull's lieutenant. It is professionalism."

"But he's your lover."

Fenris shoots Anders a look out of the corner of his eye. "I would still follow his orders if we stopped having sex," he says. "With Hawke... if our personal relationship had ended and I had fallen out of love, I likely would have moved on completely."

Anders is silent for a long moment, then he says, "She's never returned my feelings, but I follow her anyway."

"But you do have feelings for her." Fenris sighs. "If you stopped loving her, stopped caring for her, you would go your own way."

Anders considers that. "Probably," he admits after a moment. "I suppose you're right. It's different."

Fenris doesn't bother to acknowledge that. He doesn't particularly care to have a discussion about this, or anything, with Anders. But the other man seems determined to have a conversation.

"Have I dragged her down?" he asks.

Fenris heaves a sigh, and he turns his attention to Anders fully, knowing that Anders will only approach him again if he tries to ignore him now. "No," Fenris says bluntly. "She is and always has been a woman who makes her own choices; you could not have dragger her anywhere. She has made _hard_ choices of late, ones that have taken a toll on her, but taking credit for them yourself would be a disservice to her."

Anders bows his head. "You've become wise."

"Only if you count practicality as wisdom," Fenris says. "We are both changed men in more ways than one, for better _and_ for worse."

Anders just stares into the low flickering flames of the campfire, and says nothing for a long time. When he does speak, there's an otherworldly echo in his voice. "I have only ever sought justice. For myself and for others. You cannot say that was wrong."

"No," Fenris says. "I did the same. The difference between us is that I never claimed that my justice was not also vengeance; you could never admit to your own darkness."

"We are not corrupt."

"All people are corrupt, if darkness is corruption."

Anders looks up, the faintest gleam of blue in his eyes. "You would say that even of those you love? Those you look up to?"

"Of course," Fenris says. "It's foolish to put people on pedestals. To believe in pure goodness is to be blind. Every person is flawed, even those like Krem and Hawke and Lavellan."

"Heroes."

Fenris rolls his eyes. "If you wish."

"... Thank you."

Fenris looks at Anders steadily in the wavering half-light, studying his sharp features, the signs of life's wear in the lines of his face. "Don't thank me," he says. "I'm sick and tired of being looked at as some sort of _gold standard_ of a life well lived."

"But you have lived a good life," Anders points out. "It's a life you've built for yourself, and you're living it in a way that many people would consider very admirable indeed."

Fenris makes an irritated noise. "Go back to your tent, mage. We have Venatori to hunt in the morning, and I tire of your chatter."

"Yes, Fenris," Anders says, quiet entertainment in his voice, and then he slips away from the fire, leaving Fenris to his watch.

After that night, Fenris doesn't feel quite as much of a pressing need to keep an eye on Anders. He can't say that he's sure that the other man has bettered himself completely, but he is clearly trying. And if Fenris has to put up with being made into a role model by yet another person whose consideration and respect he has done nothing to deserve, well. Fenris can think of worse people for Anders to look to.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last resorts, and the beginnings of a Beautiful Friendship. (Not really.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably full of typos because I'm lazy as FUCK, but HEY, AN UPDATE. BREAKING NEWS: JULIA IS NOT DEAD.
> 
> I may well be able to cram the last of the plot into one more chapter, and I've already written the epilogue, so??? We're almost done, folks. Hopefully it won't take me another like... four months, or whatever it's been, to write the last chapter.

The Chargers stumble back into Skyhold exhausted and triumphant several weeks after they leave to find the mood in the castle startlingly low. Everyone seems on edge, and it's not long before they discover the reason: the Grey Wardens have collectively gone rogue. It is, in some ways, difficult to believe, but Fenris also remembers what Hawke had discovered about the Grey Wardens and her father; he knows that this is not the first time they have resorted to blood magic. He knows desperation, but he cannot empathize, not fully. Not when they have turned to a method that any sane person might tell them is foolish, namely, listening to a Tevinter magister's advice.

Fenris finds himself mostly idle once he is recovered from their time on the road. Nirem did not linger long in Skyhold, heading out with Pavus to clean up the Venatori they'd found and to pursue training. Fenris spends most of his time in the sparring ring; Cullen had advised the Iron Bull that they would be making an assault on Adamant Fortress, and that he should have his men ready. Krem, in response, had become militant in his efforts to keep the Chargers in shape and on their toes. The Grey Wardens were a fearsome collective, and they would need to be ready.

In a few weeks, Nirem is back again, looking no worse for his time on the road. He's back in Skyhold for two days before he finds Fenris in the gardens, working slowly through a sword form that he's trying to become better with and ignoring the stares of the Chantry sisters.

"I have an errand to run," Nirem tells Fenris, plopping down on a bench to watch him while he talks.

"I assume you're telling me because you would like my company?" Fenris says. "In which case you would be better served by asking the Iron Bull. He is my commanding officer."

"I've talked to him already," Nirem says. He looks admiring when Fenris passes smoothly through a section that demands perfect balance. "He said if you agreed, you could come."

Fenris closes his eyes and makes the next movement, focussing on his body rather than the irritation that he knows he is about to feel. "This is to do with Pavus."

"Yup," Nirem says, popping the 'p'. Fenris barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. "His father sent _Mother Giselle_ a letter, trying to con me into making him come meet some family retainer unawares."

"Typical," Fenris sighs. "I assume you told Pavus immediately?"

"Of course."

"Why do you want me to come with you?"

Nirem sighs. "Because you're the person I trust most when I'm walking into a magister's trap. You know how they think; you know how to out-think them. Just... consider it? I know you wouldn't piss on Dorian if he were on fire, but..."

"No," Fenris says, and gives up on his form. "I wouldn't. You must ask me this favour for _yourself_ , or give up on my coming with you."

Nirem sighs. "Fine. Fenris: I need to run a clandestine errand involving the potential murder of a 'Vint, and I don't want to take a full party. If you can bring yourself to tolerate my... _inamorata_ for a week or two while we ride to Redcliffe and back, I would like your company. Will you come?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Fenris says, and bows. "I will inform Krem."

Nirem directs him to meet them at the gate at dawn the next morning, then dismisses him with a wave of his hand. Fenris goes to find Krem - in the tavern, as usual. Krem gives him a look when Fenris tells him about Nirem's request, and Fenris just sighs.

"Are you sure about this?" Krem asks.

Fenris shrugs. "It doesn't matter. My personal misgivings have little sway with Nirem, and at least so far Pavus has done nothing too overtly... Tevinter."

Krem punches Fenris's shoulder, but it's clear from his expression that he understands. "At least he had the sense to ask you to come along."

"Yes."

There's a pause, and then Krem stands from his seat and swings himself over to sit on Fenris's lap, ignoring the laughter and jeering of the other Chargers. “It'll be good for you,” Krem says seriously, slinging his arms around Fenris's shoulders. Fenris grasps his waist instinctively, holding him steady.

“I don't want to.”

Krem smiles and kisses Fenris's nose. “I know.”

“... Thank you.”

"You're welcome."

 

Dawn the next morning comes disgustingly quickly. Fenris had almost hoped that the Iron Bull would put a veto on the whole venture, but he doesn't; he just laughs and slaps Fenris's back and tells him to have fun. Fenris, in response, gives him a look so dirty that it actually quells his mirth a little. He is _not happy_ , but he gets up and kisses Krem, who is warm and naked and still mostly asleep in their bed, and he collects his pack. To his disgust, Pavus is at the gate already; Nirem is nowhere to be seen, because of course not.

"Good morning," Pavus says to Fenris as he walks up.

Fenris looks at Pavus, looks at the sky, which is still only just beginning to lighten, and then looks at Pavus again. Pavus winces.

"Please try not to start any fights before we've even left," Nirem says, appearing out of _nowhere_ right behind Fenris.

He whirls, spits a curse, and then says, "Where did you come from?"

"The stables." Nirem gestures at the three mounts being lead by stablehands. Innocuous creatures, not his usual impressively-antlered mount and the shining horses of his inner circle.

Fenris nods his approval at the subterfuge, and accepts the reins of one of the horses. "Are you prepared?" he asks.

In reply, Nirem simply mounts, and waits from them to follow before he says, "We'd best get going."

Fenris rides behind Nirem and Pavus, listening to them chat as they make their way down the mountain and out into the Hinterlands. That takes most of the first day, and they spend the evening in the inn at the Crossroads rather than pushing on. The next day, they set out north-west for Redcliffe. Now that they are on more solid ground, and need to pay less attention, Nirem and Pavus's conversation morphs into a lesson in Tevene, to Fenris's surprise, and he rides a little closer to listen.

Half an hour in, he can't take it any more. He pulls up on Nirem's other side, and says, "You're teaching him like a noble."

Pavus peers at him across Nirem's body. " _Scuse?_ "

Fenris rolls his eyes. "You're teaching him the pronunciation and inflection of a _noble_ , Pavus. He's a Dalish elf. If he ever goes to Tevinter, he'll be instantly mistrusted by anyone of the lower classes as a race-traitor, and the upper classes won't respect him regardless of how he speaks."

"A race-traitor?" Nirem asks.

"Yes," Fenris says, his voice made snappish by remembered isolation. "I was considered one for being Danarius's favourite _pampered pet_ , never mind that that took the form of harsh discipline and violent rape more often than treats and petting. Any elf who trades their honour and their pride for better treatment by a magister or an altus is a race-traitor, so far as most slaves are concerned, and the Soporati aren't much better about it."

"I haven't traded anything!" Nirem protests. "Dorian respects me because of who I am, not what I give him."

"It doesn't matter. None of them would know that, and if they did, they would not believe it. _I_ barely believe it, and I know you."

Nirem stares down at the pommel of his saddle, frustrated. "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't, aren't I?"

"Of course," Fenris says. "No part of Tevinter has any pity for elves, not even other elves." He sighs. "But if you learn a slave's accent, or at least a lower-class accent, they'll be more inclined to trust you. If you _must_ go to Tevinter, it would be better to let your," he gestures vaguely at Pavus, "do the talking among the elite in any case."

"Then you'll have to teach him," Pavus says stiffly, "as I am not a slave, and do not know the accent."

Fenris rolls his eyes again. "I cannot teach him to read and write Tevene, nor can I teach him grammar or any of the technical terms. I learned all three languages I speak by immersion, and I became literate only a few years ago, and only in Trade. I will teach him the accent if he wishes; the rest is yours."

"... Ah," Pavus says, now sounding more than a little bit awkward. "Well then."

There's a moment of silence, and then Nirem asks Fenris to teach him the pronunciations of the words and phrases he already knows. They make their way through Nirem's still-small vocabulary quickly, and then Fenris subsides and lets Dorian take over once more, the lesson lasting well into the afternoon.

Nirem's work in the Hinterlands shows itself in their speed of travel. Even with a small party, they make extremely good time to Redcliffe, able to keep to the roads and unhindered by bandits. They arrive in the town in the late evening, and leave their mounts at the public stable. There are Inquisition agents about in the streets, and Nirem and recognized and greeted warmly by a number of the townsfolk as they make their way to the Gull and Lantern. Pavus had decided not to put off whatever confrontation it is that they are about to walk into, which Fenris had accepted with secret relief; he wants to spend as little time on this errand as possible.

The windows of the tavern are dark, and it is startlingly quiet in the courtyard outside, the usual loiterers absent. Fenris reaches behind himself to loosen his greatsword in its straps, readying himself as they approach the door; next to him, Pavus and Nirem are both braced, Nirem's hand on his sword's hilt, and Pavus as tense as a bowstring.

The door creaks as their small party enters the tavern, the sound echoing in the empty tavern. Pavus, walking ahead of Fenris and Nirem, pauses in the entryway and says, "Nobody's here. This doesn't bode well."

Fenris rolls his eyes at the obviousness of the comment, but doesn't have the chance to respond. Almost as soon as Pavus speaks, there is the soft sound of a footstep on the stairs, and an older man in magister's robes descends into view. Fenris recognizes Halward Pavus immediately, and he steps forward, shielding Nirem subtly.

Fenris listens to Pavus and his father argue with a stone face, unsurprised by what he hears. Nirem seems shocked by the revelations made, but Fenris knows all too well the nature of magisters: their selfish destructiveness, their obsession with perfection. The pain in Pavus's voice resonates all too strongly with something that Fenris well knows from his own past. When Pavus withdraws from the conversation, overwrought, and Nirem follows, Fenris steps fully into the magister's line of sight, drawing his attention away from them.

Magister Pavus stares at Fenris with narrows eyes, and then says, "You are Fenris."

Fenris inclines his head slightly, knowing that his expression is predatory. "You are a magister."

Pavus Senior puffs up. "I am Magister Halward Pavus, of House Pavus."

"Once you might have been worthy of the distinction," Fenris says. "Now you have proven that you are the same as all the rest."

"He is my _heir_."

Fenris tilts his chin back and flares the lyrium brands, making Pavus flinch. "Danarius felt he had the right to do this to me because he owned me," he says, his voice low and harsh with leashed violence. "Do you own Dorian?"

"Of course not!" Pavus blusters. "My son is no slave!"

"And yet you treat him as chattel."

"That is _not_ \- I only wanted what is best for him!"

"I'm sure you believe that," Fenris says.

"It is the truth!"

Fenris offers him a smile with a blade in it, and then smoothly recites the passage of Tevinter law that states that a slaveowner has the absolute right to decide what is in their slaves' best interest, up to and including the opinions and feelings they are allowed to have, and the way they are allowed to use their bodies. Pavus looks like he's been slapped.

Behind Fenris, Nirem says, "We're going."

Fenris holds the elder Pavus's eyes for another moment, then turns and nods. Nirem leads the way out of the tavern, Dorian following him with a hollow, aching look on his face. Fenris waits a moment longer, watching Pavus to ensure he won't follow: he looks stunned, like he wants to call his son back, but a venomous look and another flare of the lyrium is enough to make him look away. Satisfied that they won't be pursued, Fenris leaves the Gull and Lantern, joining Nirem and Dorian in the street.

They make their way in silence back to the stable, a tacit agreement to begin their journey back immediately. There is very little daylight left, but enough to make some headway. Even if there were not, Fenris would refuse to stay overnight in the same town as a Tevinter magister with a known predilection for blood magic.

They make camp off the road after riding for less than an hour, still mostly in silence. Fenris had expected Nirem and Dorian to speak of what had happened, but Nirem is distant and somewhat dazed, and Dorian is trapped in his thoughts. That night, over their small dinner, Dorian is the one to break the silence, but it is not to speak to Nirem.

"You had that passage memorized," he says, and Fenris looks up, measuring him with his gaze.

"Yes," Fenris replies after a moment. "I knew it too well to ever forget it, no matter how many years I have been free."

"Why would you bother?"

Fenris purses his lips, considering how best to explain this. There is no harm in the telling, he decides, and perhaps even some good. "I had one of the literate slaves teach me," he says, "and it was my mantra for many years. On the days that the sense of violation was the greatest, it was my reminder that I had no right to feel such a thing. Danarius owned me. He had the right to do as he willed with my mind and body."

Dorian's eyes flick down to the lyrium in Fenris's throat, and he says, "Wouldn't that only have made you feel worse?"

Fenris shrugs. "I knew nothing else. I have no substantial memory prior to the ritual, and I had less then than I have now. It was the best comfort I had to convince myself that my situation was all I had ever had, and the way it was meant to be."

"But you wanted to be free!" Dorian says. "How could you have found comfort in the reminder that his ownership was absolute?"

"I did not want to be free," Fenris admits. "Not then. I felt the violation - Danarius's rape of my body and my mind - but I had no concept of freedom, not enough knowledge even to dream of it. I could only console myself by reminding myself that what Danarius did to me was legal, and therefore had to be _right_ ; I had no recourse and no thought of escape."

Dorian seems to chew on that for a moment, then asks, "Did he ever bleed out?"

"Oh, certainly not," Fenris says with a sarcastic laugh. "I was far too valuable for that. He used blood magic _against_ me though, to cause pain or to restrain me."

Dorian flinches, and Fenris knows suddenly that he has had the same inflicted on him. Fenris remembers the feeling vividly, the cool, grasping sensation of the magic holding him immobile, not by outside force but from within, like something had crawled beneath his skin and tied threads to his limbs through his veins, tugging them taut until he was forced into immobility. Fenris watches Dorian carefully as the mage extracts himself from the clinging tendrils of memory, and then he glances at Nirem. Nirem is watching them silently, a sad, solemn look on his face, and he gives Fenris a small nod when their eyes meet.

"I'm sorry," Dorian says, finally. "In truth, I suppose I never realized the similarity between what I went through and the trials of a slave."

Fenris snorts. "What you went through was _nothing_ to the 'trials of a slave'. That terror that you felt, whatever agony you endured, I lived with for years; it was my entire life. Every moment of every day spent on edge, wondering if the next breath would be the one in which I erred and earned punishment. And I was comfortable in comparison to many slaves. Still, I will grant that you have a perspective that no other _altus_ has. You have caught a glimpse of understanding."

"... I only meant to draw a connection," Dorian says, sounding stung.

"And I will grant that there is one. I simple demand a deeper consideration than what you have so far granted me, and a part of that is realizing that you life has always and _will_ always be easier and kinder than mine - than that of any slave."

"I understand," Dorian says. "Thank you, Fenris."

Fenris looks at him, gauges his expression, his bearing, his tone. And yes, maybe there is the beginning of understanding there. Born from the same dark seed that Danarius had nurtured in Fenris, that Fenris had ripped out by the roots, that Philomelus had tried to plant once more: the seed of slavery in the form of a broken mind. That seed had almost been planted in Dorian, and in its wake understanding is beginning to flower. But, Fenris thinks, it is not his job to foster that understanding. That, he will leave to Nirem. So he nods, sets his bowl beside the fire, and goes to bed, leaving the others in silence once more.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is the last chapter. It's probably a little rushed; there are 15 words of dialogue in this chapter and 9 of them are swearing. But it seemed like the right place to stop and the right way to stop it.
> 
> So, a year and change after the beginning of this ridiculous journey, we've come to the end. (Well, sort of; there's a little coda/epilogue thing that I'm going to post immediately after I post this chapter, that'll go up as a separate fic in the Willow series.) Before you read the chapter, I'd just like to sincerely thank every one of you, whether you've been reading since the start or only joined me last chapter, or even if you're only reading this fic for the first time after it'd already been completed. Readers are an author's beating heart, and that you're here at all is hugely meaningful to me. This is the largest fanfiction project I've ever completed, and I've loved every minute of it (well, almost) in no small part because of all of you.

For all their reputation as an unassailable legion of steely faces and sharp blades, Warden flesh parts as easily before the swing of Fenris's sword as the flesh of any other person. They are dogged and determined, yes, and fierce; Fenris knew this already. He knows Carver, and as he cuts down yet another broad-shouldered man in blue and silver, he finds himself grateful that Hawke's younger brother has kept well clear of Orlais since the beginning of all of this. The false Calling has put an edge of desperation into the eyes of all of the Wardens around them, and Fenris is glad that Carver has been spared it. As it is, he is regretful of those Wardens he is forced to cut down. Some have joined them, and convinced more of their companions to the Inquisition's side, but more still refuse to listen, and throw themselves into battle as if the Inquisition forces were a darkspawn horde.

Preparations for the assault on Adamant had begun immediately after Nirem's return to Skyhold after escorting Dorian to the confrontation with his father. It had been a stressful few weeks; Fenris and the Chargers had been assigned a few missions to drum up a last few recruits and supplies before marching out of Skyhold's gates with the rest of the army. Fenris had often seen Cullen making rounds of Skyhold, ever with a trail of messengers and lieutenants as he did his best to ensure that his troops were as well trained as possible. Nothing could prepare a person for the fury of war before they experienced it, but Cullen had done his best.

Nirem, too, had been preparing. This is a scale of war that he had never seen, but he had made himself ready. Training in the way of the Champion, noble, honourable warriors, mindful of their battlefield and their allies, standing strong in the face anything that may come. It is a path that suits Nirem well, determined defender and unstoppable force that he is - that he has become, over the course of only a few short months as Inquisitor. He was marked as an untempered boy, and now he has become a leader of men; he will not let them all fall, not before he lays down his own life in the defence of the last man.

Even so, scores of Inquisition soldiers have already fallen. The fighting had begun in the morning, and now, into the early evening, the battle continues around them. There had been lulls when the Inquisition had taken points in the fortress, or when Nirem managed to convince a contingent of Wardens to take their side, and so relieve the Inquisition forces to some degree. Still, Fenris can feel himself flagging, and he knows it is not over yet. Soon, though. Something about the energy in the air tells Fenris that this stalemate cannot last much longer: something would break, be it the fighters, or the storm that was beginning to brew overhead.

The dragon's appearance is almost not a surprise; the things that happen to and around Nirem Lavellan are becoming predictably awful. Fenris just wipes the sweat from his eyes, readies his sword, and prepares for whatever is to come next, be it a wave of soldiers, or his own death, brought down from above. He has fought dragons before and knows that their fire is an implacable force; he does not want to die that way. He may not have a choice.

Nirem, he knows, is somewhere far ahead, his small party forging onward in an attempt to end the battle by cutting off the head of the snake. The Wardens might fight on, but there is desolation in their eyes, and Fenris thinks that if the order came, they would just as gladly lay down their swords as lay down their lives. The whole point of this battle, after all, is that they do not want to die.

The dragon lands on a far battlement, and Fenris is not watching, but he can hear its shrieking cries, and he finds himself sure that Nirem is facing it down. A single drawn sword before a beast of that size seems like an impossible thing, and yet. He will have the Iron Bull by his side, and Varric, and Dorian Pavus at his back. For all that Fenris would not trust Dorian with his own life, in these past weeks he has come to believe that what lies between the two men is real. There is a tenderness in Dorian when he looks at Nirem that Fenris has seen increasingly often, less and less shrouded and shielded by the guarded Tevinter mage. They share Nirem's quarters frequently, a new development begun just after their mutual return from Redcliffe. That confrontation, Fenris believes, was the breakthrough that the two of them needed to solidify their relationship from a flirtation into something solid, something tangible.

That tangibility will be Nirem's shield. Fenris knows that feeling well: he feels it now, with Krem at his back. The next wave of Wardens breaks upon their weapons, and Fenris throws himself back into battle once more, losing himself in the rhythm of it.

The screech of Corypheus's dragon, even more grating than before, breaks the stride of every warrior on the field. Many eyes turn to look, Fenris's included, and they watch as the high, distant battlement crumbles and the dragon falls. More than one fighter lets their weapon fall slack. At first, there is no sign of Nirem's party, and it seems he has been triumphant, but the relief does not last long: first a single figure topples over the edge after the stones, and then another, and another, until there are six bodies falling quicklty from view. One flickers with poisonous green, even from a distance.

There are cries of dismay from the soldiers around Fenris as the Inquisitor and his party vanish below the edge of the cliff. Fenris grits his teeth against a shout of his own; it will do Nirem no good, nor the Iron Bull, nor Hawke. Nor will it help him to collapse in the middle of battle. Now is not the time for grief. He meets Krem's eyes, shares a moment of sorrow, and then whirls to embed his blade in yet another Warden throat. It doesn't matter that there is nothing left to fight for, with Nirem dead, and a rift still open in the courtyard. The fight is not over, and will not be until it is.

The order comes, soon after, to put down their weapons. Clarel has given up on her mad crusade, and all that is to be done is to quell the demons and the mages already driven mad by blood magic. Fresh soldiers come in to clean up, and Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike stream to safe points to receive medical attention. Fenris has stamina yet, but allows his cuts to be bandaged and his bruises salved, and watches while Krem's ankle – broken, not sprained, as he had been insisting – is set and wrapped. Then he kisses Krem's forehead and goes to find the rest of the Chargers.

The others have made it out of the battle mostly unscathed, to Fenris's relief; it comes of being largely support, rather than front-line fighters like Krem, Fenris, and the Iron Bull. As for the Bull himself... Fenris hunts down Cullen, and learns that a party has been dispatched to the base of the cliff. Whatever remains of his friend and leader will be recovered within a few hours. Fenris bites down on the urge to say that _remains_ are not enough. Cullen knows. There is a hollow grief in his eyes for Nirem, with whom he was close, and for Dorian, who had frequently been found playing chess in the gardens with the Commander. Everyone has lost someone today. It doesn't matter that Fenris has lost more than most: Nirem, the Iron Bull, Varric, _Hawke._ All in one fell swoop.

Fenris clasps Cullen's arm briefly, and then returns to Krem's side, gathering the Chargers as he goes. He deposits them beside their lieutenant's – their _Captain_ , a promotion that Krem never wanted – bedside, kisses Krem again, and goes to rejoin the fight against the demons pouring from the rift in the courtyard. Krem is protesting, but Fenris ignores him; his words are distant. They have no hope of closing the rift now, and Fenris knows that they will need all hands. Fenris supposes that there will simply have to be a garrison left here to guard it, keep the flow from spilling out of the walls of Adamant. Most of the other rifts are smaller, largely inactive unless approached; they can set up perimeters. Corypheus will be defeated eventually, one way or the other, and after that, perhaps the Inquisition will simply become a vigilant force, keeping the rifts tame and less than deadly, though they will never not be dangerous.

The future matters less to Fenris than it once had. He'd been content, finally, to live in the present. His past no longer hunts him, and he has certain guarantees, even without the Iron Bull. The Chargers will go on. He will still have Krem, Dalish, Skinner, all the rest. He has a life. And yet his mind feels mired as he walks toward the rift. Grief, he knows. He has had little enough reason to experience it, in truth: he has lost very few people. Not to death. In Kirkwall, he had expected to lose his own life before seeing the deaths of any of his friends and companions there; the same stood once he had joined the Chargers. But killing demons, he decides, is a good enough way to manage his sorrows. And there are plenty of demons to be killed.

The rift is as active as it had been when he had first seen it on a quick run through the courtyard, chasing battle: it is a blaze of green and white and black, sparking and spitting as demons emerge from it. There have been no more pride demons of the scale that the Wardens first brought through, the rift receding enough to bar that sort of entry into the material world, but the courtyard is populated by a rage demon and several shades, one of which Fenris immediately lays into. He does not have endless energy, and he wants to make use of what little he has left before he is forced to return to Krem and recover.

Fenris makes quick work of the shade, and then another, and then steps in to assist with the rage demon, the lyrium flaring as he fights. He draws the attention of the demons, he knows, and it lightens the load on the other soldiers: Wardens and Inquisition people both, standing together against the threat. Another wave of demons comes, shades and wraiths and a despair demon, and Fenris helps with those too. Together, he and the others manage to clear the courtyard before the next wave comes, and they get a moment to take a breath and ready themselves. One more wave, Fenris thinks, and then he will have to retire, let someone else step in in his place. Several others, probably – he knows it is not inflated pride that makes him believe that he is the equivalent of two or three regular warriors, between the lyrium, his experience, and the calibre of his training.

The rift sparks again, and Fenris raises his sword, prepared to impale whatever creature materializes out of it. Energy collects, blazes, and Fenris has a split second to throw his sword down and bring his arms up to catch Varric, who falls from the rift wild-eyed and cursing at the top of his lungs.

“Bloody buggering fucking void taken Maker-damned--” Varric cuts himself off, staring at Fenris, who is holding him steady on his feet. “ _Fenris_?”

“Varric!”

“Andraste's _tits_ , we're out!” Varric cries, suddenly exultant, and they turn to the rift in time to see the Iron Bull stumble out as well, supporting Dorian, who is bleeding heavily from a cut at his temple. A moment behind them comes Hawke, her grip on her staff white-knuckled, and finally, finally, Nirem, who turns immediately and raises his hand, the rift warping shut behind him in a vicious twist of green.

Before Fenris has a chance to even register the shock, never mind recover from it, Nirem is turning to address the Wardens, speaking of Stroud's sacrifice, and informing the Wardens that they are to join the Inquisition. Fenris doesn't know what to think of that – of any of it. It doesn't matter. Varric is still clasping his forearms, and Hawke is within arm's reach, subtly leaning on her staff, and the Iron Bull is helping Dorian limp over to a step to sit down and rest himself. However it happened, they had emerged whole from the Fade. Whole and alive.

Fenris guides Varric over to the Bull and Dorian, and stands with them, watching Nirem marshal the Wardens. Nirem, unlike the rest, seems unperturbed by his stint in the Fade. And they had been in the Fade – the Iron Bull quietly fills Fenris in as they watch. As unreal as it seems, they had physically entered the Fade. And now Nirem seems complete, standing in the fullness of his power and commanding those who stand before him with ease, like a conductor before an orchestra, or a mage in control of a grand ritual. Eventually, the action moves away from the courtyard, and the party trails Nirem back to the Inquisition camp. Nirem makes a beeline for the tent where Cullen has made his small office; Fenris breaks off with the Bull and Dorian for the healers' tents. Inside, Fenris guides the Bull to the Chargers, and comes to hover beside Krem's bed as they reunite. More than a few tears are shed. Krem calls the Bull a stupid Qunari bastard and thumps him gently between his horns; the Bull ruffles Krem's hair and reassures him that he has every confidence in Krem's ability to lead the Chargers in the Bull's absence.

“Absence my arse,” Krem says, his voice choked, and leans against Fenris's hip.

The mood that evening is celebratory, the Inquisition cheering the third successful resurrection of their leader from certain death. Among those who had nearly lost someone to the vacuum of the Fade, things are quieter, but peaceful, glad to simply have everyone together and well. Nirem and Dorian vanish into Nirem's tent part way into the night, and Fenris decides to follow their good example. Mindful of the healer's steely eye and Krem's comfort, he picks Krem up out of his infirmary bed and carries him, laughing, back to their tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again. Feel free to leave me a comment, a kudos, whatever; it means the world to me if you do, and if you don't, I hope you enjoyed anyway. You can find me on Tumblr, too, where I am motherfuckingnazgul.


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